


This Town Just Wasn't Made for Two

by Cottonstones



Category: Empires, Hush Sound, Panic At The Disco, The Academy Is..., Young Veins
Genre: Homophobia, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-12
Updated: 2012-06-12
Packaged: 2017-11-07 14:55:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 69,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/432382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cottonstones/pseuds/Cottonstones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jon and Tom are farmers in a small Nebraskan town in the early 1900s. Jon is often alone on the farm while Tom takes on jobs as a rail-runner, traveling across the country. Brendon Urie is kicked out of his home and told to grow up. Ryan Ross is a traveling painter who Jon meets in the city and quickly grows attracted to. How do these four individuals learn to live and love amongst the drama in this tiny farming town?</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Town Just Wasn't Made for Two

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Wave Two of [Bandom Big Bang](http://bandombigbang.livejournal.com/) 2010\. Title taken from "First Try" by Panic at the Disco. The art for this fic is [here](http://pinkichan.livejournal.com/27162.html) and the mixes for this fic are [here](http://pinkichan.livejournal.com/27606.html).

Jon is in the middle of town, mailing out his latest letter to Tom, when the rain comes. Jon was glad for the rain; it eased the unrelenting heat that has been suffocating the farm town over the last few days and if it happens to rain a good amount, it would save Jon from having to water the fields today.

“Mailing out another letter to Tom, Jon?” Greta asks as she comes in from the back room, her thick blonde curls tied back in a braid and her long black skirt stained with rust-colored dust around the bottom. The same kind that decorates the ankles of Jon’s dark slacks, picked up from walking or biking through town.

Jon nods and hands over the letter to Greta. He rereads his own careful handwriting, the black inky curls that make up Tom’s name, and the address of the railroad town he’s living in for the time being. Greta takes the letter and slides it carefully into one of the wooden cubbies that decorate the back wall. She smiles wide and bright at him.

“Tom is awfully lucky to have a friend as caring as you are, Jon,” she says sweetly. Jon’s not sure, but he thinks he might catch just the slightest hint of wistfulness in her voice. Jon scrubs a hand through his hair, calluses from working in the field catching in his slight tangles.

“Tom gets homesick real easy,” Jon explains. It’s not a lie, because Tom does get homesick and Jon has his poorly-written letters folded in a little metal box tucked under his bed back home as proof.

“You must get terribly lonesome on that farm with Tom gone all the time,” she says, her fingers playing with the ends of her hair. Jon can’t fight the slight pink of a blush that creeps across his cheekbones.

“It’s not too bad. The work is getting harder, though, with the heat. I was thinking of picking up a farmhand to help out.”

Greta turns away from him to sort out some other letters that are being mailed out today. “You know,” she starts, “I heard Mr. Smith’s oldest; his son is looking for some work; he finished up his schooling recently.” Greta turns back around to face Jon, her hands spread out on the counter between them. “You might want to look him up.”

Jon nods more to show that he’s listening rather than actually being interested. The farm work isn’t too bad for him to manage – not yet, at least – and Tom will be home in a few week’s time. Jon should be able to get by without any help until then.

The rain lets up. The constant hissing sound that had been playing as a background to Jon and Greta’s conversation has all but disappeared, so Jon figures it’s safe to bike back home.

“Well, I’d better be getting back to the farm; make sure everything is intact,” Jon says, and Greta laughs; it’s soft and it always reminds Jon of spring. Once Jon says his goodbyes to Greta, he heads back outside. The post office is one of the few buildings in the small town of Kearney, Nebraska that has a wooden overhang protecting the people coming in or out of the post office from the elements.

Jon gets back on his bike; it’s at least two years old by now, the once-fresh black paint now chipped off, some rust collecting along the metal that surrounds the thick wheels. He could use Tom’s bike, which is in a slightly better condition, but he wants to leave it how it is, how Tom left it, safe for Tom’s impending return.

Jon bikes down through the center of town; the post office is in the center of the town with the grocery store, bar, and other necessities stretching out in three different directions. Going north leads down to the train station, to where Jon goes to watch Tom leave and, later, come back home. East takes you down past the school and courthouse; go a little farther and you’ll hit the upscale part of town.

West leads out to the bigger cities, more people, fancy restaurants, residents that actually own those brand new automobiles that Jon’s only read about in the newspaper, he’s never even seen one in person.

Going south from the post office leads you to the huge, sprawling expanses of farmland; field upon field of fenced-in wheat, corn, barns, and farmhouses, cows grazing; everything Jon’s already familiar with. The packed dirt of the road is wet and the dark mud sticks to Jon’s bike’s tires. The rain has cooled the air around him and made everything smell fresh and clean. He revels at the slight breeze that tugs at his body as he rides back to the home that he shares with Tom.

The ride from town to Jon’s home takes roughly fifteen minutes on bike, minutes added or subtracted based on how fast Jon feels like pedaling. He’s not too eager to return home to his seemingly never-ending list of chores and his empty home, so the trip takes longer this day.

Home is a two story ivory colored farm house that Tom and Jon bought off a family who wanted to sell-off their farm and move out to the Twin Cities. The house isn’t large, nor is it at all glamorous. It’s modest. The living room and kitchen are combined into one humbly spacious room, and the one bedroom is tucked back beyond the kitchen. The upper floor is nothing but flat, open space that Tom and Jon use for storing reserves and other shit they can’t find a place for downstairs or in the root cellar.

There is a porch, though, composed of large wooden planks that are railed in. Tom has a rocking chair out there and Jon cannot wait for the day when he comes home and sees Tom occupying it once again.

The cool air is dying down and the heat is picking back up along with a strong, hot burst of humidity. Jon feels the warmth from the sun prickling at his back already; it's clinging to the thick wool of his white dress shirt. Jon’s home comes into view in the distance and he whizzes past the field full of growing corn, and green bean plants, and a lot of other odd vegetables.

Where the fields end, near the barn, is their chicken coop. Chickens are the only livestock they raise on the farm, and they’re the only animals they have besides the horses: just two horses, enough to pull the cart in the field or to take into town, one belonging to Jon and the other to Tom.

Jon skids to a stop outside his home and rests the bike against the milky-white, wooden-faced side of the house. He’s been up since six that morning tending to the farm; milking and feeding the cows at six, chickens at seven, breakfast, writing a letter to Tom and traveling into town. He usually comes back when the sun’s risen enough and works in the fields until lunch. Jon typically has enough work to keep himself busy straight into dinner, and by the end of the day, he’s dirty, with blistered fingers and sweat-stained skin.

Jon doesn’t expect any company for the remainder of the day, so he figures it would be alright if he took off his dress shirt. His mother always told him to leave it on – it’s the proper thing to do, even when you’re working under the blistering heat of the afternoon sun and you feel like you’re burning alive. Tom, though, doesn’t believe in such rules and doesn’t mind getting down to his bare skin, all that hard, pale flesh going pink and baking under the heat of the mid-afternoon sun.

Jon undoes the buttons of his shirt quickly and drapes the thick fabric over the handles of his bike. That leaves him in his dark slacks and his thin white undershirt, the same one he’s had since his teenage years. He’s gotten bigger since those days, his chest expanded with toned muscle built up from farm work that Jon was never used to before.

The air feels just a little cooler with his dress shirt off, and Jon walks around the side of the house, to the back where the outhouse and the pump-well are located. If Jon were to go behind the house, he’d find the root cellar. He curls his hand around the cool metal of the pump and gives it a few test pumps; by the third pump, ice-cold water is trickling out, building up in a steady stream. Jon catches some in his hand and splashes it on to his face, cooling his heated skin.

There’s a bucket already sitting down at the bottom of the pump, and Jon fills it to the brim. He fills a second bucket up with ice-cold water as well before he goes to the side of the house where the thick curved wooden carrier is resting. Jon drags it over to the buckets and hooks the metal handles of the two bucket to each end of the carrier before he carefully raises the considerably heavier device on to his shoulders.

Jon’s hands keep the wood steady, his careful steps out to the crops ensuring that none of the water will spill out. Jon’s done this far too many times for that to happen. His shoulders ache with the weight, and he misses Tom more than ever, Tom is better at carrying the water to the field. They both were terrible at it in the early days of their farm’s life, filling up the buckets and then making it out to the field with barely an inch or two left. Jon laughs at the memory; he ignores the ache in his chest and focuses on the one in his shoulders that’s quickly spreading down his back.

Jon hates watering the crops. It’s the most tedious of all the farm work he does because there are so many crops. Jon has to make sure the little shoots of green that are hidden by the bigger plants all get watered; the more crops they have come fall, the more money they’ll have to survive on during the long, harsh Nebraska winter.

He follows the path that’s burned into his memory, making soft, strategically-placed steps to avoid smashing any crops. He goes up and down the rows of corn and beans and potato plants; keeps going, almost on autopilot by now, until both of his buckets run dry.

It keeps going this way; Jon making the trek between the field of crops and water pump. His muscles strain as he works. Jon knows he’ll be sore tonight and he longs for a hot bath and the familiar touch of work-rough hands massaging away the knots in his body. As Jon works, the prospect of hiring a farmhand to help out is looking better and better. Jon would do it, except for how their budget is already tight and he doesn’t have the money to spare.

Jon is three-fourths of the way through the crop watering when he hears someone calling his name.

“Jon! Hey! Jon Walker!”

Jon looks up; sweat trickling into his eyes and burning slightly. He sees a familiar dark-haired boy hanging over the fence that separates the dirt road from Jon and Tom’s fields.

“Good afternoon, Brendon!” Jon calls back. Brendon usually passes by the farm on his way into town, but right about now he should be working, much like Jon is trying to do.

“May I come in?” Brendon calls, and he’s already got one leg hooked in the railing of the wooden fence, ready to push himself up and over to the other side. Jon raises an arm and waves the younger boy into his yard. Brendon lives on a farm and deals with crops, so he too knows to steps lightly around the delicate plants until he reaches Jon.

“Can you take a break in your work, Jon? I kind of need to talk to someone,” Brendon says. His usual bright smile isn’t plastered on his face and he’s rubbing at the back of his neck like he’s embarrassed. Jon really shouldn’t; he’s already tired and he doubts he’ll want to pick back up on watering once he’s taken a break from it, but Brendon looks upset, so Jon agrees.

“Yeah, sure,” Jon says and he motions for Brendon to lead the way out of the field. Brendon’s wearing his long-sleeved white wool dress shirt, much like the one Jon had been wearing earlier. Brendon is sweating through his shirt, patches of moisture visible in the light fabric. He’s got his dark slacks and dress shoes on, as well, and that’s a little odd, considering dress shoes aren’t proper farm work attire. He’s also wearing his dark black bowler hat, the typical sign of someone who lives in the middle class.

Once they’re out of the field, Jon lifts the carrier off his shoulders until the buckets touch the ground, and then he eases the long curved wood piece on to the ground. Jon stretches, his muscles screaming at him in protest. He’ll probably be too tired tonight to even cook himself up a proper meal.

Jon fishes a handkerchief out of his back pocket and mops the sweat from his brow. He goes to the porch and sits up under the cool protection of its covered roof. Brendon comes and sits next to Jon, their knees bumping, cloth and skin hot and damp. Brendon brings the back of his hand across his forehead, wiping away his own perspiration.

“What’s the trouble, Brendon?” Jon asks when Brendon offers him no information. Brendon lowers his hands to his lap and keeps his eyes focused on the ground.

“It finally happened,” Brendon says quietly.

“What happened?” Jon presses. Out of all the people in town, Brendon can be considered Jon’s closest friend. He’s a little younger than Jon, but he’s kind and likes to stop by for talks. Brendon sighs and a little shiver rumbles through his body.

“My parents told me to leave,” Brendon admits, “They said they can’t afford to take care of me anymore.”

“Oh,” Jon says. He can’t say he’s surprised. Brendon is the third of the twelve children that Mr. and Mrs. Urie have. He’s also twenty, the same age Jon was when he left home.

“I’m sorry, Brendon.”

Brendon shrugs, and now that’s he admitted the problem, his soft face is crumpling into a miserable state. “It wouldn’t be so bad if I just had to move, but my father told me that I couldn’t come back to the farm until I either made something of myself or got married.”

“Shit,” Jon says, he scrubs a hand through his damp hair, the other coming up to rest on Brendon’s shoulder. Brendon seems to revel in the touch, leaning closer to Jon.

“I won’t even get to see my parents … my siblings unless I run into them in town or go up to the school house. I don’t know what to do, Jon,” Brendon says sadly. Jon rubs lightly at Brendon’s shoulder.

“You’ve done farm work before, right? There are lots of farmers ‘round these parts looking for a farmhand or two. It wouldn’t make you much, but it’d give you a roof over your head, Brendon.”

“I’ve tried. I went on down to Miller’s farm and the fella down there told me they were filled up, as far as extra work goes, till winter, but that I could put my name on a list to do work for them come spring.” Brendon plays with a loose thread on the hem of his dress shirt, his eyes heavy and unwilling to meet Jon’s. “I went by Johnson’s farm too; the main farmhand ‘bout laughed me out of the building; said I was too scrawny to possibly work on their farm.”

“Want me to go knock some sense into him?” Jon jokes, and at least that gets Brendon to crack a smile. The smile fades away quickly, though, and Brendon presses the heels of his palms to his eyes, his fingers pushing the thick, curled brim of his hat up and back just a little.

“I don’t know what to do,” Brendon repeats. “Farm work is all I know, and I quit schooling, so it’s not like I can get a pen-and-paper job.”

Jon chews at his lip and scratches at his stubble-covered jaw. For all accounts and purposes, Brendon is his best friend, beyond Tom, of course, and Brendon’s a good guy. He does hard work, as far as Jon knows. It would be stupid not to solve both their problems at once.

“Look, B, I’ve been thinking about picking up a farmhand to help out around here until Tom comes home,” Jon begins. Brendon looks up at him with big eyes and a hopeful smile. “It wouldn’t pay much at all, and you’d have to sleep on the couch or a cot on the second floor, but you’re more than welcome to stay here.”

Brendon smiles wide and bright and he leans in like he wants to hug Jon, but he stops short suddenly, biting his lip like he’s worried he crossed some kind of boundary line. Jon rolls his eyes and snakes his arms around Brendon, tugging him into a tight hug. It’s not something he’d do in town, but here it’s safe; there’s no one around for at least a good mile.

“You won’t regret this, Jon,” Brendon says with a smile. Jon claps Brendon on the shoulder once before he pushes up off the porch and steps back down into the yard to finish the watering for that day. Brendon scrambles off the porch and jogs out of the fence and back out to the street where he had been standing when he flagged Jon down from the roadside.

Jon eyes Brendon in confusion as he gingerly lifts the heavy wooden watering tool back on to his shoulders. The buckets sway and the familiar twinge of pain courses up and down Jon’s spine. Brendon comes jogging back into Jon’s yard, dirt caking his once-shiny dress shoes. Brendon is carrying a rather battered leather suitcase and he stops short when he sees Jon watching him.

“Oh. I had to get my stuff … is that alright?” Brendon asks softly.

“That’s all you have?” Jon asks. Brendon looks down at his worn case and nods.

“Everything I own is in this suitcase. It’s all I have to my name.” Brendon pats the suitcase lovingly and forces himself to smile at Jon.

“You can go on ahead and put that inside, Brendon,” Jon says, he throws a gesture to the house, and Brendon nods quickly, rushing up the porch and into the house. Jon’s not worried about letting Brendon in there alone; he knows Brendon’s not the type to go thieving, and even if he were, it’s not like Jon and Tom have much that’s worth taking.

While Brendon’s in the house, Jon goes back to the field to finish up the watering. He lets his mind wander to the next letter he’ll end up writing to Tom; how he’ll have to make mention that they have a new house guest.

Brendon hangs around on the porch while Jon finishes up watering the field. Tonight, he and Brendon will go over what work Brendon can start doing on the farm. Jon’s looking forward to lessening the load, to having some help. When Jon’s done watering the field, his back and shoulders are aching, and his slacks and thin work shirt are damp with sweat and spilt water, red dust clinging to the bottoms of Jon’s pants.

Brendon stands from his position on the porch and rushes forward to help Jon remove the curved wooden watering device from Jon’s shoulders. Jon lets Brendon take the device from him and tells him to set it up against the well on the side of the house.

“Did you finish all your other work for the day, Jon?” Brendon asks; he’s smiling bright and Jon’s sure he’s eager to prove to Jon that he’s good enough to work on the farm, to work as a means of a thank-you to Jon. “Or is there something else you need to do? ‘Cause I can do it.”

Jon shakes his head and runs the back of his hand across his forehead. “Nah, I got everything else finished earlier, but don’t be too eager; there will be plenty of work to be done tomorrow.”

Brendon laughs, and Jon goes back over to his bike to gather his dress shirt. He’s distracted as he talks to Brendon, so he doesn’t notice the way his shirt is caught on the handlebars of the bike, and when he pulls, he hears the tell-tale sound of ripping fabric. Jon swears and releases the fabric from where it’s still caught on the bike. His best dress shirt, one of the only few he has left, now has a huge gaping tear in it along the side.

“Shit,” Jon swears and inspects the damage. He’s not great at sewing; when he was younger, his mother repaired all his clothes, so he never had to learn – until he moved out, that is. Jon isn’t great at sewing, but Tom’s worse, so all the repair jobs eventually fall to Jon.

“This was my last good shirt,” Jon laments.

“I can fix that for you Jon,” Brendon points out.

“You can sew, Brendon?”

Brendon beams proudly. “Yep! My mom is a seamstress and I have five sisters; of course I can sew.” Brendon sticks his hand out, waiting to take the shirt, and Jon smiles and hands it over. Brendon staying at the house is already proving to be a good decision.

“Well, let’s go inside and I’ll show you around,” Jon says. He tilts his head towards the house and motions for Brendon to follow him. There actually isn’t much to see inside. The front door opens straight into the main room. The same scrapped up hardwood floors are laid out all throughout the house, and peeling pale yellow wallpaper decorates the walls of the kitchen and the living room, seeing as they’re both pressed together into one room.

“The living room and kitchen are here,” Jon says, pointing at the main room. “Back there, past the kitchen, is mine and Tom’s room,” Jon points to the little bit of hallway that’s visible from the main room, the hallway leading to Jon and Tom’s bedroom. “The stairs leading to the second floor are on the other side of the living room.”

The main room isn’t much. The table is pushed almost into the center of the room; the cupboards, counters, and drawers are along the right hand wall; opposite of that is the dark brown icebox, and next to that, pressed against the wall, is a beat up old couch that Tom’s grandmother gifted them the day they left Nebraska. In the corner of the room, there’s a brick-built fireplace, its wide-open mouth black and cool, dead for the heat of the summer.

Brendon nods along but Jon notes the slight wrinkle of confusion in his forehead.

“It’s just the one bedroom?” Brendon asks carefully. He tilts his head slightly as if he’s trying to work out how Tom and Jon manage to sleep in one bedroom. Jon brushes dust off his slacks and tries to ignore the implications that could come with Brendon’s question.

“Um, yeah.”

“How does that work with you and Tom?”

It’s not quite a surprising question; in fact, Jon had been expecting it. It’s the one reason Jon and Tom rarely let people into their home; it’s the same reason they don’t correct people who assume the house has two bedrooms or that one of them sleeps upstairs. Even though Jon was expecting the question, he still stumbles over an answer for Brendon.

“Tom and I take turns sleeping upstairs on the couch or upstairs on the cot,” Jon says simply; he shrugs like it’s not a big deal. Jon’s just hoping that Brendon will let the topic fall away. “We don’t have much,” Jon explains. “But we make do with what we do have.”

“Of course. I-I didn’t mean anything by it. I was just curious is all,” Brendon says with a smile. “But I hope that I’m not forcing myself on you,” Brendon says and he looks legitimately fearful, like he believes that he is. Jon shakes his head.

“No, its fine, Brendon, really.” Jon smiles and Brendon returns it.

Brendon sidesteps Jon and goes to the table; he drapes Jon’s ripped shirt over the back of one of the scrubbed wooden chairs. Jon goes to the counter and tugs open a drawer, taking out a cloth. Brendon takes a seat at the scuffed-up wooden table. He removes his hat and sets it in front of him. Brendon smiles at Jon; it’s wide with just a little hint of nerves showing through.

Jon returns Brendon’s smile. “Hey, Brendon, you mind running out to fetch me a bucket of water from the well?” Jon asks. Brendon nods eagerly, grabs his hat, and places it back on his head before he scrambles out the door. Jon laughs a little at that.

It’s fairly obvious that Brendon’s never lived anywhere but at home with his parents, the rules he learned as a kid still embedded fresh in his mind.

Jon peels off his undershirt and drops it at his feet. A few seconds later, Brendon comes back into the house, walking slow and careful with the bucket in his hands; the same one Jon uses to water the fields. Brendon hands off the bucket with just as much care as he carried it in with, not a drop spilling on the floor. Jon takes it and sets it on the counter.

Brendon reclaims his seat at the table, his hat coming back off to sit on the table once again. Jon really should invest in a hat rack now, if Brendon’s going to insist on wearing his bowler around. Jon dips the cloth into the bucket Brendon had brought for him. The water is an icy shock against Jon’s skin, but it feels good after his day spent with the heat baking into his skin, hiding under his muscles.

Jon washes off the grime, the sweat and dirt from his chest and arms. He turns his head to say something to Brendon and catches the younger boy staring at him, his eyes locked on Jon and his mouth open just a little.

“Brendon,” Jon says, and Brendon’s eyes instantly snap up to meet Jon’s face. There’s a slight flush staining his cheeks.

“Yes?” he asks uncertainly.

“How are you at cooking?” Jon asks him. Jon is a pretty fair cook already, so it’s no trouble if Brendon can’t cook; it’s just most nights, Jon is so exhausted that all the effort he feels like exerting is to crack open a can of preservatives. Tom is worse, though; he’ll cook up a pot of beans and call it a night.

“I’m not much, but I’m decent. My sisters cooked more than I did,” Brendon admits. Jon continues washing himself up and listening to Brendon as the younger boy rambles about his family; about how his mother makes this amazing stew and how Brendon wishes he knew the recipe because he’s sure Jon would love it.

Jon lets Brendon talk about his family because it’s obvious that Brendon still misses them. It makes Jon think of his own family; his mother who still lives in the middle of nowhere in Kansas, in the same farmhouse Jon and his brothers were born and raised in... Jon’s two older brothers; both of which left Kansas when Jon was still just a teenager, leaving for pen-and-paper jobs and to start families and lives of their own in the big city of New York.

Thinking of his mother reminds Jon that he’s due to send her a letter again soon. He typically mails both Tom and his mother a letter on the same day, but this week he didn’t quite have the money to spare.

Brendon stops talking when Jon dips his head into the bucket, knowing full well that Jon won’t be able to hear him with the water rushing at his ears. Jon wets his slightly shaggy hair. It’s getting longer than he usually wears it, his natural curls coming to life with the length. He needs to get it cut soon, even though Tom likes it. Jon still gets strange looks when he ventures into town.

“Would you mind cooking something up tonight?” Jon asks, “I’d do it, but I’m pretty exhausted.”

Brendon bounces up from the table and nods eagerly. “Sure, if you show me where everything is.”

Having Brendon around makes Jon realize just how lonely he’s been around the house since Tom left to Philadelphia for his work. Tom’s been gone for about a month, a month and a half at most. Tom had been living in a railroad home with about five to ten other rail-runners, but as of his last letter to Jon he said he was leaving to another city soon, so right now, Jon has no idea where Tom is.

Jon is sitting at the table while Brendon fries up the sparse bits of chicken left over from the last time Jon had to kill one of their fowls. The small home smells of cooking fat and shortening. Jon’s mouth waters; it’s been a long time since he’s had something to eat besides canned sweet potatoes, dried fruit, or fried eggs.

Brendon has finally begun to relax around Jon. He had unbuttoned his dress shirt while he was cooking, just the thin white t-shirt exposed underneath.

“You said Tom’s not home much?” Brendon asks. Jon nods, “How’d that happen?”

“Tom’s dad was a railroad man,” Jon says around a mouthful of crispy chicken, “He’d take Tom down to the railroads when Tom was a kid. He’d take Tom everywhere, really; wasn’t much you saw one without the other. They’d go to the railroad, to the bars in town. Tom spent his days around hardboiled steel workers and rail-runners. He knew just about everything there was to know about running a rail by the time he was ten years old.”

Brendon chews thoughtfully before he replies, “So he never had schooling?”

Jon feels a little guilty about talking about Tom’s life, telling Tom’s story to Brendon without Tom’s permission, but at the same time it makes Jon feel a little better, like Tom isn’t quite so far away.

“He did. His mother finally stepped in when Tom was about eleven, but he still only had schooling for ‘bout a year, year and a half tops.”

“What about you, Jon? You went to school?” Brendon asks. Jon nods as he takes another bite of his dinner.

“A few good years; that is, ‘til my dad died and my mother couldn’t afford to send me anymore. After that, I left Kansas with Tom, and he and I moved here.”

Brendon gives Jon a look, like of all the places he could’ve chosen to live, he chose this town.

“’M sorry about your dad,” Brendon says softly. He sounds worried, like he fears he’s hit a sore spot with Jon. Jon shakes his head.

“Don’t be. It was a long time ago.”

“My parents wanted us all to have at least two years of schooling. I had my two years and then I was done. It was my sister’s turn. I wanted to stay. I really wanted to learn more. But, like my dad says, ‘There’s work to be done.’ ”

It’s a familiar story; one Jon’s heard time and time again. In fact, Jon can count the number of people he knows who’ve had the full six years of schooling on one hand. The two of them finish their dinner and Brendon goes outside to pump more water from the well so he can wash up the dishes. While Brendon washes the dishes, Jon roots around the living room looking for some thread so he can attempt to fix up his shirt.

“What sort of work will I be doing tomorrow, Jon?” Brendon asks as he sets the clean plates down on the counter. Brendon shrugs off his dress-shirt completely now, just his white t-shirt on. It’s true that Brendon is small with not much muscle despite his time on his family’s farm. Jon really doubts Brendon will be able to run the watering device, but Jon definitely has work in mind for the boy.

“How do you feel about animals?” Jon asks. Brendon laughs.

“Depends on what kind; my family’s farm had bulls. They didn’t much care for me.”

“Just chickens mostly,” Jon says, “We’ve got a couple horses, too.”

“I don’t have to kill the chickens do I? I’m not much good at that, either.” Brendon looks visibly disgusted at the idea of killing the chickens.

“We don’t really kill them much. We make more money off selling their eggs than we do selling their meat or eating them.”

Brendon brightens and nods. “I can do that, no problem.”

“Good. The chickens need to be fed at six, their eggs collected after that. The horses need to be cleaned, as well, and I usually try to take them out a couple times a week so they don’t get restless. Can you handle all that?” Jon asks. He arches a brow at Brendon who smiles in return.

“I’ve handled pigs and cows, the big moody beasts that my brother and I took care of; chickens ought to be nothing.”

Jon’s satisfied with the answer and he nods happily as he searches for thread. He finally finds some in the draw of the tiny nightstand in his and Tom’s bedroom. Jon goes back out into the kitchen where Brendon is finishing up the cleaning, and Jon sits at the table with the damaged shirt spread out in front of him.

“So, Jon,” Brendon starts, he sets the last plate on the counter. Jon doesn’t bother lifting his head from where it’s tipped down as he threads the needle.

“Hmm?”

“You got a special lady in town?” Brendon asks.

It’s another question Jon doesn’t much care for. He’s not a liar, but he doesn’t have a truth he’s willing to admit. He’s tried that before, and by now he knows that no good can come from it. Jon shakes his head as he successfully threads the sewing needle and sets to work on his shirt.

“Nope.”

“Why not? Don’t you get lonely?” Brendon hefts the bucket into his hands, intent on going back outside to dump the excess water into the front yard. Jon shrugs.

“I suppose I’m not lookin’,” Jon tells him. Brendon stares at him from across the kitchen and Jon’s eyes are practically burning a hole into his shirt with how hard he’s staring at it as he attempts to start repairing the tear.

“And Tom? He got a girl waiting for him?”

Jon laughs, he doesn’t really mean to but he does. This time he does look up at Brendon.

“Nah, not a whole lot of girls are willing to date a rail-runner like Tom. Most women want their men to be home; not many will tolerate his traveling.”

Brendon chuckles softly. “I guess that’s true.” He heads outside to dump the bucket and Jon sews silently. He hates this; having to lie about his relationship. There’s been so many times he’s wanted to tell the truth, so many instances where he’s wanted to take Tom’s hand when they’re in town together, or kiss him at the train station when he comes home from working out of state, just like all the girls do to their arriving lovers or husbands. But Jon and Tom don’t have that sort of luxury. They have to keep everything behind closed doors.

Jon’s chest aches faintly with the need to see Tom again. That fact coupled with Jon repeatedly pricking his own finger on the sewing needle until blood pearls on the tip leaves him thinking that bed would be a good option. Jon sets his half-mended shirt on the table and waits until Brendon has come back into the house to tell him goodnight.

Jon tells Brendon to turn the lights out when he goes to bed and that there’s an alarm clock sitting on top of a box upstairs that he can use. Brendon nods and smiles. Jon goes to his and Tom’s room. It’s mostly barebones, the large, soft bed taking up most of the space, the gray metal frame and faded dark green quilt that Jon’s mom made him when he was fifteen. There’s a deep, dark, oak dresser with a mirror on the wall over it. Tom’s belongings are still spread along the top of the dresser; his box of tobacco that’s too rich for him to take on the road for fear he’d wind up losing it or having to share it, his bottle of cologne, framed black and white and sepia photographs from Jon and Tom’s youth.

Jon strips down to just his undergarments; the heat hasn’t died down with nightfall but it has lessened. There’s a slight breeze and Jon cracks the window in the room. His window faces out to the backyard, to endless fields, and if he looks far enough, he’d see the thinned-out forest where the creek is.

The warm breeze fills the room and Jon settles down on the bed, on top of the quilt. He leans over to the bedside table and digs in the drawer until he finds a match. He strikes it and lights the oil lamp that’s sitting there. Jon turns out the real lights and settles back into the bed. He leans down and reaches under the bed, fishing out a thin metal box.

It’s the box of Tom’s letters to Jon. Jon looks at them from time to time, on nights like this where he misses Tom the most. He opens the box and pulls out the letter from the top, the most recent; the paper is stained with Tom’s dirty fingerprints. Tom’s handwriting is messy; his words spelled wrong or scratched out altogether. It reminds Jon of when he first thought of the idea for their correspondence, back before Tom’s impending departure. Tom hadn’t wanted to, at first; he was still hung up and ashamed over the fact that he could barely read or write due to his lack of schooling.

Jon invested some time and coaxed Tom into letting Jon teach him. Jon wasn’t the smartest person around, but he knew enough to teach Tom the basics and then some. It wasn’t easy; Tom is stubborn as all fuck, and he insisted that the rules of writing were useless things. Even now, Tom writes by his own rules; Jon’s just stopped minding.

This particular letter is about Tom’s time in Philadelphia. Tom had talked about how the crew he was working with were actually skilled this time, not like the last group, who couldn’t run a rail if their lives depended on it. Tom tries not to get too emotional in his letters, in case someone was to intercept one of them. But in this one, it seems Tom’s been missing Jon as well because he keeps talking of home, of their bed, and a warm solid body that he misses the touch of.

They don’t say I love you in letters either. Well, Tom suggests that they don’t, but most of the time Jon writes it anyway; he writes it small and neat so Tom can read it but someone glancing over his shoulder probably couldn’t. Tom doesn’t write it often, but he still tries; he ends his letters with ‘I love Nebraska,’ which is mostly just a poorly-veiled code for ‘I love you, Jon.’

Jon reads over the letters until his eyes burn with the need for sleep. He folds them all back up and carefully tucks them into the metal box before he slides the box back into place under the bed. Jon puts out the oil lamp and darkness overtakes his room. There’s a thin line of light coming in from under the door signifying that Brendon’s still awake. Before Jon passes out, he briefly wonders if Brendon’s longing for his family will worsen at night.

***

Jon’s up at seven that morning. The sun’s just breaking through the clouds. Jon rubs at his eyes and gets dressed for the day. It’s only when he’s looking through the closet for his trusty dress-shirt that he remembers that it’s ripped, that he gave up on fixing it the night before. Jon sighs and gets out a clean, but much less presentable, dress-shirt. He doesn’t quite understand the social standards, how he’s expected to work in a field in the blistering heat and still look presentable if he’s to wander into town. Jon puts on his shabby dress-shirt with the jagged stitching that Tom had done once upon a time.

When Jon goes out into the kitchen, the curtains are already opened wide, and there’s breakfast waiting for him on the table: fried eggs and toast with a glass of milk. Jon also finds his shirt draped over the back of the chair. He lifts it up and inspects it; the tear has been repaired, fixed near perfectly.

Bringing Brendon on to the farm is shaping up to be a great decision on Jon’s part.

After he’s eaten breakfast, Jon heads out to start his day of work. He sees the small outline of Brendon darting in and out of the chicken coop and he laughs a little. It’s blisteringly hot out today and Jon is sweating through his shirt already. Jon narrows his eyes at the sky and shrugs off his dress-shirt: to hell with looking presentable on days like this.

***

Brendon’s a good worker, for the most part. He’s got a lot of energy, and once he’s finished with the chickens, he comes into the field to talk to Jon for a few minutes. Brendon’s ditched his own dress shirt as well, the plain white undershirt and black slacks making up his outfit for the day. He’s carrying a wicker basket of eggs and he swings the basket gently back and forth as he talks to Jon.

“What are your horses’ names? You know, so they can get to know me,” Brendon says. Jon straightens up, the watering device a familiar painful weight on his back. Jon remembers a time when he couldn’t even lift the damn thing and now here he is, chit-chatting with it resting across the line of his shoulders.

“Dylan is my horse,” Jon says, “He’s the white and brown dappled one. Clover is Tom’s mare; she’s dark brown.”

“We takin’ them out today? For exercise?”

“Nah, not today. It’s too hot and we run the risk of giving them heat exhaustion. Just clean ‘em up and make sure they have food.”

Brendon nods and makes his way out of the field, basket in his hands intent on dropping it off inside the house before he goes to tend to the horses.

***

Jon and Brendon fall into a routine rather quickly. Brendon’s already up by the time Jon wakes up and he cooks up breakfast, though the day after Brendon’s first day of work on the farm the boy had been particularly worn out so Jon had wound up getting up first and making breakfast for them.

Brendon tends the animals while Jon works the fields. They take a break when the sun hits the middle of the sky to eat lunch; they take turns making lunch, and after they eat, its back outside to finish up their chores. At night, they eat dinner and talk. Sometimes Brendon doesn’t talk; he’ll get this far away look in his eyes and they’ll just eat together in silence.

Today, Jon is in town; he’s at the grocery shop. Beckett’s Groceries to be exact; the building is long and wide and off to the side on its own strip of land. Brendon didn’t come into town with Jon, choosing instead to saddle up Clover and let her run off her excess energy. He had mentioned possibly riding into town and meeting up with Jon.

The inside of the store is filled with long metal shelves, each one stacked with canned goods from different farms, things that are shipped in on trains from other towns. There are huge square boxes of vegetables and fruits; Jon’s crops will be among them once harvest rolls around. There are jars of candy along the counter, and William Beckett is messing around with one as he mans the counter.

“Heard you finally wised up and hired some help around your farm,” William says as he watches Jon shop. Jon looks up from where he’s writing his name down on the list of ice deliveries for the upcoming week.

“Yeah, Brendon Urie,” Jon says.

“Oh right, the Urie kid. His Pa comes in here to sell; ‘course, never when I’m working,” William sighs.

William is one of those guys, the type of guy that Jon’s dad and men around town warn you about, the type they tell you to avoid lest you sully your reputation. William is tall; he’s bone-thin with long lanky limbs. He’s also pretty, with dark hair and dark eyes, and Jon’s sure that on more than one occasion, William’s been mistaken for a girl.

William pulls at the dingy white strings of the apron tied around his neck and back. William’s arm is frail and lacking any real muscle definition. Jon figures it’s mostly because William’s never had to work on a farm a day in his life. William’s father, William Beckett, Sr., owns the grocery store, and has since before William was even born.

“Why’s that? He’s not real fond of you?”

William’s hair slips into his eyes and he brushes it away as he answers. “He’s one of those kinds... ignorant; the sort that get a real kick out of referring to me as ma’am,” William says, his fingers tightening around the edge of the counter.

Jon’s mouth makes a soft ‘O’ shape. He doesn’t particularly know much about Brendon’s father, but it’s hard to imagine that someone with a son as warm and welcoming as Brendon is could be anything but kind.

“Brendon, he ain’t … he ain’t like that, Bill,” Jon says, as if he feels the need to suddenly defend Brendon despite William saying nothing about the boy himself. William shrugs and leans in close.

“I heard his whole family is like that; worried that one of their sons is gonna be a ‘queer’ as the men in this town so elegantly put it.”

Jon grimaces. He can’t picture Brendon in a family like that, but what if Brendon does carry the same ideas as his parents? What will happen when Tom comes home and they can’t hide any longer?

“Give the kid a chance, William. Apples can sometimes fall far from the trees, you know?”

William nods and begins to ring up some of the items Jon had previously set up on the counter. Jon’s got about ten dollars left in his budget for this week. Next week, he and Brendon will have to come back down to the store and sell off some eggs, especially if Jon wants money for ice for their ice box and to send out letters to Tom.

William nods in consideration. He places all of Jon’s items in the lidded basket Jon had brought along with him. Just as Jon’s about to leave the store, the door bursts open and Brendon is standing there, wild-eyed and breathing heavily like he’s run a mile.

“Brendon? What’s wrong?” Jon asks.

“Jon! I was riding Clover into town and there was a fox! The damn thing came outta nowhere and spooked her; she lost her balance and stumbled. She’s got a really nasty cut on her front quarters,” Brendon explains, his words rushed. Fear sinks in Jon’s stomach; he loves his horses, he really does, and Clover is Tom’s horse. If something were to happen to her, he’d never hear the end of it.

“Where is she now, Brendon?”

“I managed to get her to walk the rest of the way to town. She’s got a pretty bad limp on her and she’s bleeding a bit. I hitched her up outside the store so I could come and find you.”

“Goddamn, I don’t know much ‘bout fixing horses up,” Jon mutters. Even besides the fact that he loves Clover and that she’s Tom’s mare, they need her around the farm. There’s too much work to put on just Dylan, and buying a new horse would cost them a pretty penny.

“You know Jon, I heard Farmer Smith’s boy, Spencer; he’s real knowledgeable about animals,” William interjects.

“Really?” Jon asks, William nods, “Alright, Brendon, I want you to bike on down to Smith’s farm. It’s just past the Miller’s place, big light blue farm house, you can’t miss it. Ask for Spencer and bring him back here; we’ll have him take a look at Clover girl and then worry about everything else later.”

Brendon nods and scurries back outside. Jon shoots a glance to William, who shrugs. Jon too heads outside to check on his horse. Jon lets Brendon use his bike to ride to Smith’s farm and he watches Brendon pedaling away before he turns to his injured horse.

Clover’s got a deep cut on her foreleg; it’s bloodied, and when Jon touches it, Clover whines and pulls away from him. It takes Brendon ten minutes to bike down to Smith’s farm and return with Spencer in tow. Brendon sets Jon’s bike against the side of the store. Spencer rode in on a dark steed of his own and he slides off the animal before he ties it to the postings outside the store.

Spencer is tall, broad-shouldered with a full, dark beard. Jon knows little of this man except that he’s younger than most folk take him for. Jon’s not exactly sure who’s older between Brendon and Spencer, but he knows for sure that he’s older than Spencer.

Spencer brushes a hand through his dark hair, pushing away bangs that are just a tad bit longer than Jon’s used to seeing on men. Spencer lives on a farm and his father is a farmer but Spencer’s family isn’t in the lower middle class like Jon and Brendon; Spencer is from an upper-middle-class family; his father has loads of farmhands and could probably afford a house in the city.

“How is she, Jon?” Brendon asks. He looks nervous and he’s fidgeting with his dark bowler like he’s afraid Jon will hate him now.

“Bleeding a little here,” Jon answers as he touches at the wound on Clover’s leg. Clover stamps her injured foot and Spencer makes a soft, considering sound. Spencer moves to the horse and Brendon’s dark eyes follow his every move. Spencer crouches down next to Clover and touches at her injury like Jon had done. Clover snorts and Jon holds his breath. He can’t afford any sort of veterinarian care for her. She’s Tom’s horse and Jon had sworn that he’d take care of everything Tom loved while Tom was on the road.

“It’s not that deep,” Spencer says, “I can go back to your place and wrap it for her. You’ll have to keep her off of it for a few days, but otherwise, she’ll be fine. ‘Course, she’ll probably have to walk home on it,” Spencer says as he straightens himself up. Jon sighs.

“I’ll walk with her. Brendon, you take my bike.”

“No, it was my fault, Jon. I’ll walk with Clover and you bike home.”

“I’ll stay behind and make sure things are fine,” Spencer says. Jon nods and picks up the basket of groceries he had purchased. He sets his bike straight and gets the basket of groceries tucked into the metal basket on the front of the bike. When they take off from town; Jon rides ahead on his bike, unable to keep up with the slow pace of Brendon walking beside Clover, Spencer’s horse trotting behind. He notices the two of them talking; notices that every time Spencer says something, Brendon’s eyes stay glued on him.

Spencer hangs around the farm the rest of the day. He mostly sticks to the barn with Brendon so he can keep an eye on Clover. He hangs around long enough that once dusk falls and the sky turns this dusky shade of light purple, Jon asks Spencer to stay for dinner.

Brendon cooks dinner, which happens to be thinly cut slices of beef that Jon picked up from Beckett’s. They eat the beef with beans and bread. Spencer warms up to them pretty quickly, especially Brendon. Brendon goes through his typical string of conversation-ready questions; he asks Spencer about his family and about attending school, how he learned so much about animals.

Spencer tells them that he just finished school at the beginning of this year; he tells them how he’s got two younger sisters, twins, and that their father is looking to marry them off soon. Spencer looks at Jon when he says this, and Jon tries his best to decline and still not offend Spencer.

“You don’t have to work on a farm,” Brendon says. “You got smarts and money; why not leave? Move out to the city?”

Spencer pushes his food around on his plate. “I’ve thought about it. I figure I could get a desk job out in the city. But I also feel like I should stick around here?” Spencer says it like he’s asking them a question. Brendon’s leaned forward a bit; hanging on Spencer’s every word.

“Ain’t much here to stick around for,” Jon interjects. Spencer smiles at him and shrugs.

“It’s a feeling I get deep in my belly, a feeling that tells me I’m supposed to be waiting for something.”

“And how will you know when you find it?” Brendon asks. It’s a little like Spencer is telling a fairytale and he’s desperate to know the ending. Spencer shrugs again and turns his smile; it’s huge and blinding and contagious, and he turns it on Brendon, who grins back. Jon doesn’t think he’s ever seen Brendon smile so hard.

“I suppose I’ll just feel it. Some sort of sign that says ‘Spencer, this is it, what you’ve been waiting for.’ ”

“You know, I’ve always wanted to live in the city,” Brendon says once he’s finished eating and started his nightly ritual of cleaning up the dishes. Jon offers to do it or to help, but Brendon shakes his head and says that it’s the least he can do, considering what happened to Clover.

Spencer stands and takes his plate to Brendon, the sleeves of his white cotton button-up rolled up to his elbows. He offers Brendon the plate and Brendon smiles and takes it.

“You have?” Spencer asks. Brendon nods rapidly.

“Oh, yeah, my oldest sister used to read these books about the city. She was the first one in the family who could read, and she loved books. She’d bring them home and read to us after dinner. She always read the stories about the city and she talked about how she wanted to go there. When she got old enough, she met this fella that knew my Pa. She married him, and sure enough, she got to move to the city.” Brendon smiles at the memory.

“Where would you go, Brendon?” Jon asks from the raggedy recliner that’s pushed up near the fireplace, a warm glow bouncing around Jon’s knees and arms.

“New York City,” Brendon replies without a moment of hesitation.

Spencer tilts his head. He’s still standing up at the counter with Brendon as Brendon dips the plates into the bucket of room temperature water; they had enough sense to collect the water beforehand so they wouldn’t freeze their fingers off while washing up the plates.

“Why New York City?” Spencer asks.

“My sister’s husband grew up in New York City,” Brendon begins; he washes the plates and sets them aside while Spencer and Jon watch. “He told me lots of interesting things happen in New York; lots of opportunities. Hang on, I’ll show you,” Brendon proclaims, and he sets down the plate he had been washing before he scrambles away and up the stairs.

Spencer turns to Jon, and Jon laughs and shrugs. Brendon may live with him, but the boy is still quite an odd mystery. Spencer returns the laugh and picks up the plate Brendon had yet to finish washing. To Jon’s surprise, Spencer finishes up the plate for Brendon and puts them away in the cupboard. If Jon weren’t so sore, he’d feel a little guilty.

There’s thumping around upstairs and then Jon hears Brendon clomping back down the stairs, and he’s back in the kitchen. He’s smiling and his dark eyes are all bright and happy.

“Here, look, see,” Brendon says. He lays something out on the table, smoothes it down with nimble fingers. Spencer moves to stand beside Brendon, and even Jon’s curiosity gets the better of him; he’s pushing himself out of his comfortable chair to see what Brendon has.

It’s a postcard; a sepia picture of buildings, taller than the little rectangle of paper can capture. Brendon smoothes down the corners of the postcard and then taps the center of the paper.

“It’s New York City. My sister sent me this. See, they have these clubs there, clubs where people play music. Isn’t that amazing? It’s this stuff called Jazz, all pianos and horns, guitars, real soulful stuff, straight from the heart. That’s what I want to do,” Brendon proclaims proudly.

“Music? Do you play?” Jon asks. He scans the little rectangle snapshot of a city that he’s never seen before. Brendon’s wide smile fades a bit.

“Well, no. I’ve only seen pictures of instruments in books at school. I’ve never actually got to touch one, let alone play one.”

Jon wants to ask how Brendon thinks he’ll make it playing music in a foreign city when he’s never even picked up an instrument of any kind, but he doesn’t want to be the one to crush the boy’s hope. He prays Spencer won’t crush it either. Spencer smiles warmly.

“Someday, you’ll go?” Spencer asks him. Brendon picks up his postcard and Jon catches a glimpse of the curly, cursive handwriting on the back. The black-haired boy shrugs.

“Maybe. Kinda hard to go chasing your dreams when you have no money and an unknown talent,” Brendon says softly. He sounds like it’s what he’s been told, like it’s a trained response or he’s doubted his own talent and dreams long enough that he’s convinced himself he won’t make it out of Nebraska.

Spencer lays his hand on Brendon’s shoulder and gives it a squeeze; he’s got this kind little smile on his face and honestly, Jon’s surprised by the action.

“Sounds like you’re waiting for something too,” Spencer says, and Brendon looks up, surprised at the words. Spencer, though, releases Brendon’s shoulder and turns to Jon. “Thank you for inviting me in for dinner. I’d best be heading home now, but I think it wise if I stop by these next few days to keep an eye on Clover. Is that alright?” Spencer asks. Jon nods and claps Spencer on the shoulder.

“More than alright. We always enjoy guests ‘round here.”

Spencer nods and smiles and he bids Brendon and Jon a goodnight before he leaves. After he goes, Jon looks to Brendon, who’s sitting at the table and tracing his finger along the picture of the buildings, his face crumpled in concentration. Jon decides not to disturb the silence or Brendon, so he goes to dump the dish water himself before he heads to bed.

***

Spencer comes back to Jon’s place several times during the rest of the week. He checks on Clover and he helps Brendon care for the chickens. Spencer even comes into the field with the same trained, careful steps as Jon, and he offers to water the other half of Jon’s sprawling field.

Spencer’s shoulders are broad, and he handles the device like a pro despite his lack of experience. Jon briefly wonders if he should feel guilty about this, about Spencer helping out on the farm with no promise of compensation, but Greta had mentioned that Spencer was looking for some work, so maybe it’s not a problem.

While Jon is in the field with Spencer, he notices Brendon standing out in front of the square, chipped, red barn, basket of eggs in his hands and his eyes trained on the two of them. It’s not a surprise; Jon’s been noticing how Brendon’s gaze has been lingering on Spencer on more than one occasion these last few days. It’s not a look Jon can classify; Brendon looks at Spencer like Spencer is something Brendon has never seen before, or something Brendon can’t quite comprehend.

“So Brendon lives here with you?” Spencer asks as he carefully tips the buckets, spilling water on to the crops. Jon nods.

“Yep, for just about a week now.”

“Just the two of you?”

“For now it is. I live with my friend Tom, but he’s working out in Philadelphia right now, so I brought in Brendon to pick up the slack.”

Spencer straightens up, tall and broad. “He seems like a good guy; you like him living here?”

“He’s a great guy; hard worker, eager to please,” Jon says. He glances back at Brendon and the black-haired boy has ventured into the barn to tend to the horses. Spencer laughs small and soft.

“He’s an interesting character, that’s for sure.”

Spencer stays for dinner, as has become the norm this week. Tonight, he’s brought some food from his house.

“A homemade apple pie, courtesy of my mother.” Spencer grins as he sets the cooled pie down on the kitchen table with a flourish. They eat their dinner; more left over pieces of chicken from the icebox and warmed potatoes from the root cellar.

“Brendon,” Spencer says sometime later when the three of them are nearly finished with their meals. Brendon turns his head to look at Spencer, eyebrows raised. “You said you liked music, right?”

Brendon grins and nods. “I love it.”

“There’s this restaurant up in the city that my father and I go to when he has business out there. It has a jukebox; do you know what that is?” Spencer asks. Brendon screws up his mouth and shakes his head. “It’s a machine that’s loaded with records inside of it. You chose a record and press a button and it plays the music,” Spencer explains.

Brendon’s eyes go wide, “I’ve been to the city but I’ve never … I just go there with my Pa to sell livestock. I’ve never seen one of those before.” Brendon sounds amazed; he sounds excited and wistful, and it sort of makes Jon happy to hear Brendon sound so enthusiastic about something. Spencer smiles warmly, like that answer’s the one he really wanted.

“Would you like to see one?”

Brendon makes this little noise and tilts his head, looking far too similar to a confused pet dog Jon once had in his youth.

“Like I mentioned, my dad goes into the city for business quite frequently, and I usually go with him, and, well, next time I go, I’d like you to come with me,” Spencer tells Brendon.

“Oh wow, Spencer, that’s real nice of you. I’d love to go.”

Spencer smiles full on, and Jon thinks maybe Spencer should always be smiling, especially if it keeps Brendon smiling the way he is right now. Spencer’s eyes flicker over to Jon and he clears his throat.

“Of course you’re invited too, Jon. It’d be all three of us … not just ...” Spencer adds quickly but he trails off, unable to finish the sentence. Jon’s not sure what’d he say or why it matters if he’s included or not. He’s sure it’s to spare his feelings, but Jon is not a kid, and he wouldn’t be jealous if Spencer took Brendon to the city over him. Even though Jon’s sure he wasn’t originally included in Spencer’s plans, he’s fine with being asked to go, as well. It’s been a long while since he’s managed to get himself to the city, and he’d like to go again.

“Sure, sounds great, Spence.” The nickname just sort of comes out; Jon freezes up a bit because he doesn’t know if Spencer’s the type to like nicknames or if he even likes Spence as a nickname. Spencer, for his part, just smiles.

Spencer leaves after dinner, as he always does, but this particular night, as Brendon goes to shake Spencer’s hand, he makes a half-aborted attempt at giving the other man a hug; like he had considered it and then thought better of the idea. Jon knows why. He himself doesn’t mind hugs from other men, but there are more than enough men in this town that’d likely punch Brendon’s lights out if he tried any of the sort with them.

Spencer waves a goodbye and tells them that he’ll be back tomorrow. Brendon and Jon watch long enough to see Spencer walk down off the wooden porch, release his horses’ bindings, and then climb up onto the stallion and disappear into the darkness of the evening.

***

The next day, Spencer is back and watering the field while Jon sits on the porch, taking a break. It’s hot out today, and he’d tired faster than usual. Jon’s sitting on the wooden steps of the porch, floppy straw hat perched on his head. Brendon is inside the house, sweeping the floors and getting the eggs ready for selling. Jon’s on the porch when he hears a soft little meow.

Jon looks down and there’s his brown dapple cat, Roosevelt, rubbing around his ankles.

“Hey there, Roosevelt; where’ve you been, boy?” Jon scratches the cat’s dark head and under his chin. Roosevelt is the stray cat that lives on the farm. He’s not exactly a pet, but Jon did name him and sometimes leaves a little milk out for him.

“Who’re you talking to, Jon?” Brendon asks. He comes out of the house to stand on the porch, broom in his hands.

“Roosevelt,” Jon says. He lifts the cat up and sets it on the porch. Brendon sets his broom against the house and kneels down to pet Roosevelt. The cat isn’t wary of Brendon; instead, he arches into Brendon’s touch and rumbles out a purr.

“Like the president?” Brendon laughs. Jon nods.

“I like the president,” Jon laughs. Brendon straightens up, and Roosevelt looks at Jon and cries out at him before he climbs down off the porch and heads off around to the side of the house. Brendon and Jon sit and watch Spencer, who looks like he’s heading in for a break of his own. There’s a dark blur and then Roosevelt is back.

“Jon, it’s got something in its mouth!” Brendon exclaims, and when Jon looks up, he sees a dark little ball of something hanging in Roosevelt’s mouth.

“Might be a mouse or a rat. He catches them from time to time,” Jon says and then the little ball makes a soft, tiny cry, and Brendon is hopping down off the porch. Roosevelt lets Brendon take the little ball from him and Brendon makes a surprised little noise.

“It’s a kitten!” Brendon says and he cups the little ball of fuzz in his hands and turns to face Jon. The dark little kitten cries in Jon’s direction and Brendon coos at it and cuddles it to his chest. By now, Spencer has joined them and he quirks an eyebrow at Brendon.

“What’s happening now?” He asks.

“Jon’s cat had kittens!” Brendon says.

“Roosevelt can’t have kittens,” Jon interjects. “He’s a boy.”

Just then, Roosevelt comes back with a second kitten in his mouth. This time, it’s a dappled-colored one, one that looks exactly like Roosevelt. Jon takes this kitten and it cries and shakes until Jon holds it against his chest. They watch Roosevelt take off in the same direction it had gone the first two times and this time they have enough sense to follow.

The cat leads them to the side of the house, where there’s a loose board in the bottom of the siding. Roosevelt dips into the opened space and Spencer takes some initiative and moves the board away. Under the house is Roosevelt with six dark little kittens; that’s not even counting the two Jon and Brendon are holding.

“Roosevelt is apparently a girl,” Spencer says and Brendon snorts.

“Can we keep them, Jon?” Brendon asks, cooing at the little kitten in his hand. Spencer is watching him fondly.

“Well, they live here, but I think it best we put out a sign offering them up,” Jon decides. He’d rather the kittens go someone they’re needed as opposed to having an overabundance of cats on this farm.

***

Brendon appoints himself surrogate father to the kittens. After he’s done with all his chores, he kneels down on the wooden planks of the porch and feeds the kittens in the big cardboard box that Jon’s moved them and Roosevelt into. Spencer brought a medium sized square flat piece of wood and a piece of charcoal and made Jon a sign that reads ‘Free Kittens!’ The sign is now set against Jon’s fence for passers-by to see.

Every time someone stops, Brendon gets this worried look on his face as the townsfolk inspect the kittens.

“Can’t have eight cats, Brendon,” Jon says as a woman takes one home, a small white one that Brendon had nicknamed James. Brendon throws a pout at Jon as he cuddles the mini-Roosevelt doppelganger.

Sometime later, when Brendon is inside making lemonade with Spencer, a little girl shows up at the edge of the farm. She’s got dark black hair that hangs down around her face and these big huge dark eyes that look so familiar to Jon. Jon figures she must be around six or seven years old.

“You have kittens?” she asks softly, her hands messing with the apron she’s wearing, Jon smiles warm and friendly as he steps down off the porch.

“Sure do! Seven of ‘em, in fact; would you like to see them?”

The girl hesitates for a moment before she nods. Jon picks up the box of kittens and sets it down on the ground so she doesn’t have to come up on the porch. The girl crouches down and pets a couple of the kittens, the friendliest ones who search for human fingers.

“They’re cute,” she giggles, and Jon nods.

“They’re also free.”

Her big brown eyes widen with excitement. “I’d like one an awful lot, but my Ma and Pa would never let me have one.” She pouts and Jon is reminded of Brendon and how he pouted when that woman took James. Jon hears the footsteps of someone coming out on to the porch.

“Jon, when’s the ice delivery coming? We’re almost out and I –” Brendon stops talking and Jon looks over his shoulder at the other boy. Brendon is standing there with the pitcher of lemonade in his hands. His eyes locked on the little girl next to Jon. “Mary...” Brendon says softly and the little girl gasps.

“Brendon!”

Brendon’s eyes go dark and soft and he sets the pitcher of drink down on the railing of the porch. The little girl, Mary, jumps up and runs up the steps to Brendon, throwing herself around his middle, clinging to him and crying.

“Brendon! Ma wouldn’t tell me where you went! None of them would! You left … why’d you leave?” the little girl sobs against Brendon’s shirt. Jon’s not the smartest guy around, but he knows enough to realize that this little girl must be one of Brendon’s sisters.

Brendon kneels down so he’s eye level with the girl and his eyes are wet just a bit. Jon’s never seen another man cry before, save for the occasional funeral or when someone got too drunk and reminisced about something tragic, his face heats, knowing Brendon’s seconds from crying.

“’M sorry, Mary,” Brendon says sadly. He hugs the little girl tightly and she sniffles against his shoulder. “Believe me, I didn’t leave ‘cause I wanted to. And I’m sorry I didn’t get to say goodbye.”

“Well, I found you.” She pulls back and looks him in the eyes. “I found you, so now you can come home?”

Brendon shakes his head, “I can’t.”

Mary bites her lip. “Ma and Pa told me I’m not s’posed to talk to you if I see you in town,” Mary says sadly and she pulls away from her older brother.

“Mary...”

“I gotta go,” Brendon’s sister says quickly. “Ma is waiting for me.”

Brendon nods and hugs his sister again, presses a kiss to the side of her head. Mary wipes at her eyes and nods at Jon before she hurries away. Brendon sits on the steps and he covers his face with his hands. Jon doesn’t know what to do beyond just being there, sitting next to Brendon, so that’s what he does.

 

***

 

Brendon sleeps in the next morning, Jon doesn’t bother waking him. He makes breakfast and leaves it out on the table for the younger boy. Jon goes and feeds the chickens because they actually can’t wait for Brendon to wake up. They need to go into town today to sell eggs and once again sign up for the next week’s ice delivery.

Jon’s in the barn, checking up on Clover. Spencer has since declared her healed up, but Jon just wants to be sure. From inside the barn, Jon hears his screen door bang open and then close, and he looks over his shoulder to see Brendon in the distance, standing on the porch and fully dressed.

Jon turns away from his horses and waves to Brendon as he starts moving back in towards the house, closing the feet between them.

“Sorry I slept so late,” Brendon says quietly. His eyes are still heavy and he’s not nearly as energetic as he had been in the previous days. Jon smiles as Brendon rubs at the back of his neck embarrassed.

“Don’t worry about it.”

“The chickens –”

“I fed ‘em.”

“Aw, Jon, I’m awful sorry. I didn’t mean to miss my work for today,” Brendon apologizes.

“It’s no problem; we gotta run into town today to sell some eggs, make some money. You want to come with?” Jon asks.

“Yeah, yeah, of course.”

Jon and Brendon wait around a half an hour before they decide to head into town. They each have a basket full of brown and white eggs, ones that are high-quality enough to sell. Jon knows William’s picky, so he saves them both the trouble by sorting out ones he already knows aren’t good enough.

Selling off eggs and the occasional group of chickens is how Jon makes money until Tom comes home, or until the harvest time rolls around. Jon and Brendon make it to Beckett’s place and Brendon slips away from Jon while William inspects the eggs. Jon finds him afterwards; Brendon’s in the back of the store, looking at the long, soft cots that are lined against the back wall.

“Brendon?” Jon asks carefully. Brendon whirls around as if he hadn’t heard Jon coming up behind him.

“Oh, Jon.”

Jon looks past Brendon to the cots; they’re nicer than the one Brendon currently sleeps on. That one was a hand-me-down from Tom; it belonged to Tom throughout his childhood and teen years, and he used it up until the day he moved in with Jon.

“Would you like a new cot, Brendon?” Jon asks. The one nearest them is priced as twenty-five dollars, too much for Jon’s budget.

“Oh, no, no. I was just looking. I … what I have now is more than enough, Jon. Don’t go worryin’ about me.” Brendon very obviously forces a smile and Jon returns it. He’s used to bright and happy Brendon; this one is something he’s having trouble getting a hold of.

They pick out some groceries; milk; Jon really does need to invest in purchasing a cow, flour, and fat, and he pays for another week of ice deliveries. By the end of it all, Jon’s spent about half the money he had just made from selling eggs.

Brendon is just as quiet as they leave the store; depressed over seeing his little sister, Jon has decided.

“Jon,” Brendon begins. “Do you think Spencer will come by the farm today?”

Spencer hadn’t come to visit yesterday; it’s the first time he’s neglected to come over since Jon and Brendon have met him.

“Dunno; don’t much see a reason for him not to stop by and say hi. Then again, Clover is all healed up.”

“Right...” Brendon nods, his mouth falling into a sad line. Jon frowns.

“You know, there’s nothing stopping you from going on down to his place and saying hello, Brendon,” Jon tells him. Brendon looks over at him, but before he can say anything, Jon hears someone calling to him.

“Jon! Jon Walker!” It’s Greta and she comes scrambling out of the post office, dirt kicking up around the bottom of her yellow, flower-patterned dress. Jon and Brendon stop in their tracks and Greta runs to meet them. Her blonde hair is down today, curls cascading over her shoulders, her cheeks tinged pink from running. “I’m glad I caught you, Jon,” she pants.

“What’s going on, Greta?” Jon asks cautiously. He’s already noticed the smooth, off-white envelope that’s clutched in Greta’s hand. He’s a little worried now that that letter may contain some bad news.

“You got a letter from Tom!” Greta declares and she grins as she offers Jon the letter. “I knew you’d want it right away and I just so happened to see you and your friend here passing through town.”

Jon’s heart rises to his throat so fast he doesn’t even think he can speak. He takes the letter from Greta, trying hard to hide his excitement at reading his lover’s words. Greta has her eyes trained on Brendon and Jon notices her smile warmly at him. Brendon returns the smile but it’s, again, forced.

“Why, Jon, you have the most handsome group of friends I’ve ever had the luck to encounter.” Greta offers her hand to Brendon. “I’m Greta Salpeter.”

Brendon takes her hand and smiles; it’s a little truer this time. “I’m Brendon Urie.”

“Oh, right, I knew you looked familiar,” she says as she releases his hand. “You’re staying with Jon now?”

Brendon nods and stumbles out a “Yeah.” Jon’s willing to bet that Brendon doesn’t have much experience with women, not that he’s one to talk.

“Then I shall have to drop by soon and bring you boys some real food; maybe a pie. How’s that sound?” Greta smiles sweetly and Brendon blushes a little. Jon’s eager to get home and read his letter from Tom, so he claps Brendon on the shoulder and grins wide at Greta.

“Well, Ms. Salpeter, I reckon we’d like that very much.”

Greta beams and Jon and Brendon bid her their goodbyes and start on the trek home. Jon’s got Tom’s letter tucked safely on the inside of his shirt. He hopes for good news, that Tom is happy and healthy. When they get back to the house, Brendon is gracious enough to put the milk and meat into the icebox and the other groceries away, so Jon can read his letter.

Tom writes about how he got Jon’s letter before he left Philadelphia; the address on the envelope says that Tom mailed this new letter from Indiana, so that means he’s at least a state closer to home. Jon’s eyes catch on the next paragraph from Tom.

‘The boss wants me to stay on for a few months longer; he’s been tryin’ to talk me into moving to Philly, but I keep tellin’ the damn fool that my heart is in Nebraska.’

Jon smiles at the words, the double meaning; he smiles at Tom’s small little token of affection. He knows that Tom could get more work if he lived out in Pennsylvania, but Nebraska is their home. Jon continues reading Tom’s letter, the words slanted and messy. There are smudges of soot in the shape of fingerprints at the bottom of the piece of paper, Tom’s fingers.

‘I got a surprise for ya,’ Jonny. I’ll be comin’ home soon. I’m in Indiana right ‘bout now and I figure I’ll be home in about a fortnight.’

Jon knows he’s grinning wide; he can feel it. Tom’s coming home, and that’s just about the best news that Jon’s gotten in a long while. Of course, with Tom coming home so soon, Jon’s next letter should probably be centered on explaining how Brendon now lives with them, but Jon doesn’t want to worry about that right now because within two weeks his lover will be home.

“You got good news, I take it?” Brendon asks as he claims a seat across from Jon at the table. Brendon looks a little brighter, like maybe he’s finally coming back around to being happy again. Jon knows he’s smiling and he knows that he’s been smiling since he opened the letter from Tom.

“Yeah, was I that obvious?”

“It’s just that when you read the letter your eyes got real bright, real warm, and you’re smiling a whole lot.”

Jon folds up the letter and tucks it back into the envelope. “Tom’s coming home soon; within two weeks, he says.” Jon can feel his own smile, his chest practically bursting with anticipation of Tom’s impending arrival.

“Will he mind that I’m here?” Brendon asks carefully. Jon shakes his head.

“The opposite, I imagine,” Jon laughs. “He’s always pestering me about getting help on the farm.”

“Jon?” Brendon says several moments later. Jon makes a noise of recognition. “How’d you and Tom come to live together?” Brendon’s fidgeting, twisting his fingers together.

“Well,” Jon starts, he can’t quite give the full reason; how he and Tom would sneak kisses in Jon’s parent’s barn, how they would exchange quiet handjobs in the upstairs of Tom’s bedroom, cramped and pressed together on the same cot Brendon now sleeps on, when his parents were in town or out in the field. “Tom was tired of Kansas and what it had to offer. He learned of some job opportunities in Nebraska and asked me if I wanted to come with him.”

Tom and Jon didn’t even get to fuck until they moved into the house they currently live in.

“And no one stopped you? No one told you living with Tom was a bad idea?” Brendon sounds like he can’t believe it was all really that simple. Jon tilts his head slightly.

“Of course not. Tom’s my best friend, and sure, we get the occasional odd stare when people find out that we live together and neither of us is married, but quite frankly, Brendon, we don’t much care.”

Brendon twists his fingers again and stares at the table.

They drop the subject after that and the rest of the night passes in peace. Before bed, Jon pulls out the tin box from under their bed and adds Tom’s latest letter to the pile.

***

Spencer does come back the next day. Jon is in the field and Brendon’s in the chicken coop when Spencer comes walking up.

“You two almost done with your work?” Spencer calls. Jon shields the sun from his eyes with his hand and shouts back, “Just about why?”

By now, Brendon’s taken notice of Spencer’s return; his head poked out of the entrance of the chicken coop. Spencer jogs to Jon, who’s on his last section of field to water.

“Remember me telling you my father goes into the city?” Spencer pants as he attempts to catch his breath. Jon nods and continues his watering. “Well, he’s going there today and I want you and Brendon to accompany us.”

“Alright, that sounds good,” Jon says as he continues with his watering. Spencer is dressed differently today, a dark suit and pristine white dress-shirt. Jon’s only seen folks wear outfits of that nature to funerals or days in court. “I don’t need to dress up, do I?” Jon asks.

Spencer shakes his head, his slicked back hair slipping into his face. “Nah, I’m just doing it because my father wants to introduce me to his acquaintances. You and Brendon can explore the city while I’m doing that and then I’ll meet back up with you.”

“Alright, just let me go and clean myself up,” Jon says as he smiles and retreats back towards the house.

***

Within two hours, the three of them are in the city. They take the train; Mr. Smith, who’s sitting next to Spencer and across from Jon and Brendon, took the ride as an opportunity to talk business with the two of them; it could’ve been worse, in Jon’s opinion. Mr. Smith could’ve been one of those fathers who endlessly offer their daughter’s hand in marriage.

The city has all these buildings, taller than Jon’s used to seeing. The streets are paved and busy with life. As Jon and the others exit from the train station. Spencer’s dad leads them to a shiny, black, large automobile. It’s the first time in his life that he’s seen one, and Jon’s just a little bit amazed. The automobile is large and open and Spencer’s father slides behind the driver’s seat, Spencer taking the spot next to him.

“Brendon, Jon, I’ll meet you two back here in an hour,” Spencer says, and Brendon and Jon nod in response. Mr. Smith starts up the automobile and thick smoke pours from the vehicle. Mr. Smith grins at them as he pulls away from the train station and into the slight traffic already on the street.

“Well, where do you want to go?” Jon asks Brendon. The younger boy shrugs.

“Anywhere, except I promised Spencer I’d wait to go to see the jukebox until he came back.”

Jon’s mom used to call their family country mice; how they were all best suited for country living, for working in the fields. Maybe it was that correlation that pushed Jon’s brothers to go to the city and shed their ‘country mouse’ ways, but right now, Jon feels very much like a little country mouse. He feels small and naïve and Jon wonders if this is ever how Tom feels, surrounded by foreign cities, around smartly dressed people who seem to hold the entire world in their hands.

Jon and Brendon wander down the sidewalks, past bookstores and restaurants; smells of cooked pork and beef wafting out with the slight breeze. Jon’s wallet is tucked into his pants pocket, but he knows he doesn’t have enough for a meal, let alone enough for both he and Brendon.

Brendon is grinning and rambling about how he thinks this is what New York must be like, expect grander, glittering. Brendon doesn’t look afraid; he looks eager, more than ready to leap into the unknown and make his presence known until he’s accepted into the city, until he’s lost all traces of his country raising.

Jon and Brendon end up going into clothing shop; silver racks of brand new slacks and freshly pressed white shirts, bowlers and newsboy caps. The store is busy, and inside of it, it’s fairly obvious that Jon and Brendon aren’t from the city. Their clothes are patched and shabby, worn in. Brendon is in the corner, trying on new bowler caps, while Jon looks through the rack of shirts.

The next time Jon looks up from the racks, Brendon is gone from the corner. Jon walks around the store but finds no Brendon; the younger boy has simply vanished. Jon isn’t worried. There is no rule about the two of them having to stay together, and they are due to meet up with Spencer at the train station. Besides, Brendon is an adult and fully capable of taking care of himself. He doesn’t need Jon to hold his hand.

Jon explores the city on his own after that, keeping his eyes peeled for Brendon just in case. He rounds a corner and the street is lined with bulky black automobiles. Jon’s passing by a library when he notices a pair of scrawny legs jutting right across the sidewalk. Jon stumbles to a stop right before he trips over or steps on the pair of legs. He follows the line of the limbs up to its owner.

There’s a boy sitting against the granite face of the library. He’s thin, almost scarily so. Jon feels like this man might blow away if the wind were to pick up too strongly. The boy lifts his head and peers up at Jon from under his light brown newsboy cap. The boy brings his legs in out of the way and tries to make himself look smaller if it’s at all possible.

His cheeks are gaunt and his deep brown eyes are a bit sullen. Jon thinks that maybe if the boy were to lift the dark brown jacket he’s wearing up, then Jon could probably see and count each and every one of his ribs. The boy rests long, long hands on his knees and he’s still looking up at Jon with these dark, questioning eyes. Jon notices he has a tin cup sitting next to him, the glint of pocket change glittering at the bottom.

On the other side of the boy, there appears to be a canvas painting. Jon shifts a little so he can get a better look at it, and the boy’s eyes follow him the whole time. Jon hasn’t seen much art and he’s not the type that can tell offhand what’s considered good and what’s not, but he knows what he likes and what he doesn’t, and he likes this painting next to the boy.

It’s a painting of a seascape. Jon’s never seen the sea or anything bigger than the lakes his father took him to learn to fish at, or the ones he and Tom would swim in when the August heat became unbearable. The art is incredibly detailed and pretty, bright; Jon kind of loses himself in the scene, soft blues and fresh crisp whites of waves crashing against the beige shore.

“You like it?” The boy finally asks, and his voice catches Jon off-guard. He was expecting something light and frail, thin and wispy, something to match his body. Jon meets his eyes and he smiles and nods.

“Yeah, did you do it?” He’s aware he sounds a little awed by it and that country mouse role feels tailor-made for him once again. The boy nods and he shifts a bit and then pushes himself up so that he’s standing. The boy is tall, taller than Jon but a little shorter than Spencer and he’s lanky, thin like a rail.

“I painted it yeah. Stayed out on that beach for three days to get it right,” The boy says. Jon lets out a low whistle and allows his eyes to fall back to the painting.

“You got to stay out on the ocean? Right there?” Jon reminds himself of a child, mesmerized by something adults long lost interest in. The guy nods and smiles, his smile is bright and lights up his face but at the same time it highlights the little hollows of his cheeks.

“It’s from my time in Virginia, that there is the Atlantic Ocean,” The guy says and he sounds proud, “You know, if you really like that piece, it’s for sale.” The artist, he sounds hopeful like he thinks Jon has enough money to afford a luxury like art.

Jon doesn’t answer right away instead he focuses on the artist’s words. “Virginia? That’s an awful long way from here.”

The boy raises his sharp shoulders in a shrug. “I lived there and then I decided to just go … to get out, you know? I’ve been traveling ever since, and somehow, I ended up here.”

“You don’t work?” Jon questions; from the looks of it, he really doubts it.

“Nope, save for the occasional odd job here and there that I do for lodging, food, or my painting supplies.”

“Well, where are you staying? You got family? Friends that you’re staying with?” Jon hopes this fella won’t think it rude of him to ask all these questions. He doesn’t know why, but he’s extremely curious about this man, his life, and his paintings. The man shakes his head and takes off his newsboy cap, revealing a head full of dirty brown hair that falls long and shaggy into his eyes and creeps down the back of his neck.

“Sure don’t. I find little places to sleep; park benches, out here on the streets, sometimes in spare bedrooms if the person is kind enough.”

“You…you sleep on the streets?” Jon asks disbelievingly. The guy nods.

“It isn’t so bad…so about that painting?”

“Well... how much are you sellin’ it for?” Jon asks. He doubts he’ll go through with buying it, but maybe the boy will give him a deal on it. The boy looks back at his work, his eyes bright and filled with what looks like pride.

“I was hoping for one dollar….but I’ll take seventy-five cents.”

Jon has three dollars in his wallet, and that’s only after selling a good amount of the eggs. He and Brendon have got to survive on those three dollars for the next two weeks. Though, when Tom comes home, he’ll bring a paycheck with him, and that’ll last for quite a while. Maybe Jon can afford to help this guy out.

“Does your art get bought a lot?” Jon asks. The guy looks down and Jon sees deep, purple shadows under his eyes.

“Nah, too rich for most country folk and most city folk don’t give me the time of day. I wind up trading my paintings for a place to sleep or a hot meal.”

“You say seventy-five cents is alright?” Jon asks as he pulls out the beat up leather of his wallet, the one that belonged to his father in his youth, passed down to Jon when Jon reached his teens. The boy nods and sets his cap back on his head.

“Do you have change?” Jon asks as he offers out a dollar. The boy nods and scoops up his tin cup; the coins passers-by must’ve given him or the remains from the last odd job he did rattle in the cup. He scoops out a quarter and offers it to Jon, who hands over his dollar. Jon watches the boy fold the dollar and carefully tuck it away before he sets his cup back on the sidewalk and lifts his painting up, handing it over to Jon.

“I even signed it, there in the corner,” the boy says. Jon looks in the corner and there in black charcoal is the initials RR. “The name is Ryan Ross,” the boy, Ryan, says. Jon tucks the painting carefully under his arm and offers up his own hand.

“I’m Jon, Jon Walker.”

“I hope you enjoy that painting, Jon Walker,” Ryan says with a smile.

“I’m sure I will it’s quite beautiful.”

Their conversation lapses into silence and Jon looks down to the corner, to the lampposts with the clocks built into them. According to the post Jon is supposed to be heading back to meet up with Spencer and hopefully Brendon.

“Well, I’m due to meet my friends but it was nice meeting you, Ryan,” Jon says as he offers Ryan his hand once again. Ryan nods.

“Likewise,” he says and even though Ryan himself looks gentle, weak, his handshake is firm. Jon departs with his new and only piece of art; he just hopes he won’t regret the decision.

***

When Jon arrives back at the train station both Brendon and Spencer are waiting there.

“Jon! There you are!” Brendon says as he rushes forward to meet Jon the rest of the way, Spencer following along behind him. “You left the store,” Brendon says and then he notices the painting tucked under Jon’s arm. “What’s that under your arm?”

“I couldn’t find you in the store, Brendon and this is a painting I bought from an artist down by the library.”

“I went in the dressing room to try on a suit and when I came out you were gone,” Brendon says, a slight pout taking over his features.

“That’s a pretty good painting, Jon,” Spencer notes, “How much did it cost you?”

“He wanted a dollar but took seventy-five cents.”

Brendon’s eyes widen. “Jon, Jon, can you afford that?”

Spencer reaches out and prods Brendon in the side with his elbow, Brendon looks over at the two of them before his eyes widen again and his mouth takes this little ‘o’ shape.

“Anyway, let’s get to the diner, I’m paying,” Spencer says.

“Oh, Spence, you don’t have to do that,” Jon says. Spencer waves his hand around.

“It’s on my father’s dime actually. He inked a deal with the men we came to meet.”

Jon gives in and Spencer leads them down the main road of the city. They pass by the more upscale restaurant that Brendon and Jon had taken note of when they were exploring the city. Spencer leads them about three blocks or so from the train station, he leads them to the diner built from red brick. Through the large square windows Jon can see people sitting inside in plastic booths and along the counter in little rounded stools.

Inside the restaurant smells like grease and coffee and its loud and busy; that country mouse feeling settles over Jon once again. Brendon is wide-eyed drinking in all the different people, people dressed like them or people in suits and dresses, people that are dressed up like Spencer.

The three of them squeeze into a plastic booth; Brendon and Spencer on one side and Jon and his newly purchased art on the other. They place their orders without much discussion and while they wait for their meals to come Spencer bumps his shoulder against Brendon’s.

“Let’s go look at the jukebox,” Spencer tells him. Brendon nods excitedly and the three of them head to the back of the restaurant where the rounded jukebox is sitting and glowing, the lights on it flashing sporadically. Spencer hands a beaming Brendon a penny, Brendon pushes it into the machine and hits buttons, making the music catalogue inside flap back and forth.

Spencer points out songs that he says Brendon would like and he smiles fondly at Brendon’s sheer joy over the jukebox. Brendon winds up picking a blues song; it’s smooth with pianos, horns, and guitars. Brendon grins so wide and infectious that Jon can’t help but smile along. Brendon plays two more songs before their food arrives.

“You liked it, Bren?” Spencer asks as they tuck into their meals.

“Oh, Spence, it was amazing. I wish we had one of these back home. It’s like; I can see the notes, the music, in my head.”

They continue eating their food and after awhile Brendon excuses himself to go to the bathroom; Spencer and Jon watch him until he disappears from their sight.

“Jon,” Spencer begins.

“Hm?”

Spencer’s eyes are locked on his plate of food.”While you were lost in the city Brendon and I got to talking.”

“Oh?” Jon says and then, “I wasn’t lost, I was exploring.”

Spencer laughs. “Well regardless, I think... I think Brendon was trying to ask me to move in with him.”

Jon tilts his head and arches an eyebrow. Suddenly Brendon looking at cots in the grocery and asking Jon all those things about when he and Tom moved into together makes more sense.

“You think?” Jon asks.

“Well, he was being vague about it, like he was really nervous or wanted to feel me out about it before he really asked but I mean, it’s Brendon, he’s not the subtlest person around. I told him to talk to you about it before he goes inviting people to a house that isn’t his own.”

Jon wipes at his mouth with his napkin. “I haven’t even gotten around to tellin’ Tom about Brendon yet,” Jon says sheepishly. It’s not that he wouldn’t mind Spencer living on the farm it’s more an issue of space and possibly charging for rent. Spencer laughs but then Brendon’s walking back to the booth and so the two of them drop the issue.

The conversation carries on normally; Jon hears the bell above the diner jangle as a customer enters and he looks up to see Ryan Ross, the artist from the library coming into the diner. Ryan doesn’t notice Jon amongst the other patrons; he probably wouldn’t remember Jon even if he had noticed him. Jon ignores Brendon and Spencer’s conversation and instead focuses on Ryan whose standing at the counter, talking to one of the older waitresses.

Jon glances at his painting and the man who created it. He excuses himself from the table; he’s not sure why but he is fascinated by this man, Ryan Ross. Jon squeezes himself in next to Ryan at the counter.

“Mr. Ross,” Jon says with a smile. Ryan turns his head in confusion and then his eyes brighten up.

“Oh, hello, Mr. Walker, isn’t it?” Ryan’s steady voice asks. Jon nods just as the waitress returns to Ryan.

“I’m sorry sir but you don’t have enough for the meal you ordered,” She tells him with no amount of grace or attempt at quiet. Ryan’s cheeks flush a bit and he glances at Jon before he messes with the brim of his newsboy cap.

“Well, what do I have enough for?”

The waitress sighs, she sounds annoyed at this whole situation. “A cup of coffee,” she snips at him. Ryan sighs, a deep rattle in his chest. His long fingers tap against the counter, knuckles black with what looks like it might be charcoal, Jon’s used to seeing Tom’s hands look the same.

“Alright, I’ll take it.”

The waitress rolls her eyes but nods and moves to go and pour Ryan his cup of coffee. Ryan looks embarrassed, he shifts restlessly in place.

“Not to be rude or speak out of turn, Mr. Ross, but I just bought that painting from you. That shoulda been enough to get yourself a meal.”

Ryan’s head is ducked but he can see that same pink flush that had stained Ryan’s cheeks now climbing up the back of his neck.

“It would’ve been had I not stopped off at the art supply store prior to this diner,” Ryan explains.

“You bought supplies over food? No wonder you’re as thin as a rail,” Jon chides, he briefly balks because he sounds an awful lot like his mother right about now. Ryan looks up at him with those deep dark eyes and he frowns, that only makes his face look thinner, more gaunt and sickly, Jon feels the beginnings of worry tug at his stomach. But Ryan doesn’t say anything, as if even he cannot defend his own actions.

“You’re right; it really isn’t your place, Mr. Walker.” Ryan’s words are lacking certain venom that Jon thinks normally should be there.

“I apologize. I am curious though; if you’re spending your last money on this cup of coffee then where are you planning on sleeping tonight?”

Ryan opens his mouth and closes it again; he looks a little uncomfortable, maybe he doesn’t tell people these kinds of things on a normal basis.

“I’ll find a place,” Ryan mumbles. That doesn’t sound very good to Jon; he pictures Ryan sleeping propped up against the outside of the library; blank canvases, tubes of paint, and sticks of charcoal sprawled out around him. “I’ll probably be moving on to a new city soon anyway,” Ryan adds.

“You know, I don’t live too far from here, in a little farm town ‘bout two hours from here.”

Ryan raises an eyebrow but then the waitress, with her bright orange curly hair is returning, carrying a chipped white mug and handing it over to Ryan. Ryan nods his thanks and blows at the liquid to cool it. Ryan sips at his coffee, making a face afterwards.

“I think I would’ve been better off starving.”

Jon laughs a little and then he feels a hand on his shoulder and he’s a little surprised at his own disappointment in it not being Ryan’s hand. Jon turns his head and Brendon and Spencer are standing there.

“Jon, the last train is leaving soon, we’ve got to go,” Spencer says, his blue, blue, eyes shifting between Ryan and Jon. Ryan drinks his coffee and watches the three of them with a careful heavy gaze.

“Ah, right.” Jon turns to Ryan and he finds himself not quite ready to leave this interesting character behind, “Mr. Ross, nice running into you again.” Jon offers Ryan his hand. Ryan keeps one hand curled around his mug and the other he offers to Jon.

“And the same to you, Mr. Walker, enjoy the painting.”

Spencer pays for their meals and Jon gathers up his painting, Brendon peers at Ryan from around Jon’s shoulder.

“Is that the artist, Jon?” Brendon asks as they’re leaving the diner. Jon throws one last look at the diner and he catches the faintest glance of Ryan sitting at the counter, head bowed and coffee in hand.

“Yeah, yeah, that’s him.”

Spencer’s dad is already waiting for them at the train station, leaning against the wall and smoking a cigar. They take the train back and Jon is quiet during the ride. He wonders where Ryan is really going to sleep tonight, if he’ll be able to have money for food when he wakes up. Jon shouldn’t be worrying about a person he met briefly but he can’t help it. He glances at the painting and traces a blunt finger over the curved line of the waves of an ocean Jon will probably never see.

Jon had thought that once he got home, got the painting hung up in his and Tom’s bedroom that his thoughts would be his own once again. Spencer leaves for home when they get back to town while Brendon and Jon return to the farm. Jon lies in bed and he feels the need to re-read Tom’s latest letter; he’s still just as excited about Tom’s impending arrival but tonight the excitement feels tainted. Jon folds the letter and lets it rest on his chest; over his heart and his eyes lock on the painting. If Jon stares hard enough he can see the black looping RR in the corner.

***

The next day after Jon’s work is done he sits down and starts writing Tom a reply. The house is quiet and still with Brendon in the horse barn with Spencer. Jon writes about how he’s excited to see Tom, how their room and bed is too cold, too empty. He mentions how he finally got to see an automobile for the first time and how they have a new farmhand staying with them.

Jon pictures Tom sitting in a train, cheek pressed to a cold window as Indiana creeps by slowly outside; Tom’s face dirty with soot from the train and his hands tucked into the pockets of his black pea-coat.

Jon seals up the letter and carefully writes out the address in Indiana before he tucks the letter into the inside of his shirt and goes outside to get on his bike. Outside Brendon and Spencer are nowhere to be found but Jon figures they’re messing with the chickens; Brendon had taken a shine to the fowls and Jon can easily picture he and Spencer in the coop petting the birds.

Jon bikes into town, it’s cooler out today; the wind pushing at his hair and face. The worry that Jon had had about Ryan from the previous day has ebbed away a bit and Jon feels normal again; he feels like himself. The town is quiet with few people milling around outside. Jon sets his bike up against the side of the post office and heads inside the building.

Greta is working behind the counter; she smiles big and bright at Jon as he comes inside but there’s another worker with her today. Pete Wentz is standing in front of the mail cubbies, pulling letters and stuffing them into his large canvas bag. Jon doesn’t see Pete much, save for when he’s delivering mail. Greta works inside the office, sorting letters into the cubbies and tossing packages and letters of untraceable people. Pete looks over his shoulder and smiles toothily at Jon.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Walker,” Pete says with a nod. Pete’s black shock of unruly hair is tamed by a white straw hat he’s wearing, his already tanned skin even darker with how much time he spends out in the sun.

“Afternoon, Pete.”

“How can I help you, Jon,” Greta asks lightly. Jon pulls his letter from the inside of his shirt and shows it to Greta, “Ah, a letter for, Tom? That’s some good timing you have, Jon. Pete’s collecting the outgoing mail right now.”

Pete turns from taking letters out of the cubbies and holds out a hand for Jon’s letter to Tom.

“He’s outta state, right?” Pete asks; Jon nods as Pete slides the letter into the bag.

“Hey, Greta,” Jon starts, “Do you have the schedules for the trains?”

Jon would like to say that he wants a schedule so he can determine what train Tom will wind up taking home but really, a little voice inside his head is urging him to find out when the next train to the city leaves. Greta tilts her head in confusion but she nods.

“Yeah, right here, Jon.” Greta turns away from him, her braid swinging out behind her. She takes a sheet of paper from a shelf on the wall and hands it over to him, smiling all the while. “You going somewhere?” she asks.

“Nah, well... I was thinkin’ of going out to the city maybe... tomorrow or something.” Jon really hates his brain right now and how it tells Greta of half formed plans that Jon thought up before falling asleep last night.

“Oh? You moving away on us, Jon Walker?” she teases. Pete snorts from the cubbies.

“Can you really blame him? Ain’t nothin’ here for no one, Greta,” Pete says. Pete doesn’t bother looking at them, just continues with his work.

“It’s nothing like that. I just have some business to attend to.” Jon pictures sullen eyes and gaunt cheeks, charcoal-covered hands. Greta lets the topic drop and instead chooses to frown in Pete’s direction. “Well, thanks for this,” Jon says as he waves the train schedule at Greta. “But I’d best be heading home.”

“Jon, wait!” Greta half-shouts the second Jon turns his back on her. Jon looks back over his shoulder at her. “You remind your farmhand, Mr. Urie; that I’m going to stop by and visit him soon.”

Jon smiles and nods, and Pete snorts again from his position in the room. Jon folds the schedule up and replaces it with the letter in his shirt pocket. He had considered going back to the city alone, going back specifically to talk to Ryan Ross once again, but if he goes, he really has no plan of what to do once he gets there. His plan so far extends only to seeing Ryan again.

Brendon and Spencer are in the house when Jon returns home. Brendon is at the counter, heating up the stove and making lemonade, and Spencer at the kitchen table with the latest edition of the newspaper spread out in front of him. Jon smiles at the two of them. He’s glad that the house is alive, that there’s someone to come home to until Tom is back. Brendon beams at him and hands over a glass of lemonade.

“Did you go into town?” Brendon asks. Jon nods.

“To mail off a letter to Tom.”

Jon thinks about the reasons Brendon wants Spencer to live in the house with them. Brendon is used to eleven people in a home; he’s used to sound and activity and life, and someone always being there. Jon figures dropping from eleven to two is quite a shock to his system. Jon often wonders if Brendon ever gets lonely up in the attic at night.

“Oh, Brendon, Greta wanted me to remind you that she’ll be paying us a visit soon,” Jon says. Brendon instantly blushes a light pink color and his eyes dart to Spencer. Spencer has his eyebrows raised, but otherwise, he’s quiet.

“Oh?” Brendon squeaks. “Well, um, that’s fine!”

Jon laughs. “You’re getting awfully worked up, Bren. Do you fancy Ms. Salpeter?”

Brendon grows an even darker shade of red and shakes his head. “No, I just –”

“Relax, Brendon, I was just foolin’,” Jon assures him. Brendon ducks his head and laughs a little, too high and too embarrassed, his cheeks still heated. It’s more than obvious that Brendon has never been with a girl in his life.

That night, Jon stares at Ryan’s painting as he attempts to drift off to sleep. He closes his eyes and tries to imagine himself there, off the Virginia coast; actually lying on the warm gritty sand, cool water crashing against his body and lapping at his skin.

Jon’s never been anywhere besides Nebraska and Kansas. Lately, he’s been thinking that that’s the reason he’s so interested in this Ryan Ross character. Ryan has traveled from Virginia to Nebraska, and Jon can only imagine the places he’s seen or the types of people he’s met. Jon wants to hear those stories or see art scrawled from memory. In a way, he wants to live through the memories Ryan is sure to have.

***

Spencer is over the next day for breakfast instead of his usual midday arrival. Jon’s feeling distracted and has been feeling this way since he woke up that morning, his eyes catching on the painting. He feels off, lost in a way, as if suddenly life as it is isn’t good enough. There’s this urge tugging at his chest; the need to go back to the city and find Ryan Ross, to make sure he’s still alive, still in one piece.

Brendon is cooking up griddlecakes; the sizzle of the batter against the pan is loud in the kitchen.

“Spence,” Jon begins. Spencer is drinking coffee and he looks up when Jon addresses him. “Would you mind taking over my field work today?” Jon knows it’s a lot to ask of Spencer, but it seems he just can’t rein his own mind in, can’t get himself to focus on much of anything. Spencer looks taken aback, but he nods.

“Sure, should be no problem, but why? Are you going somewhere?”

“I was...” Jon looks down at his hands before he looks back up at Spencer. “I was thinking of going to the city again.” There’s a clatter of metal pan against stove and Brendon is looking over his shoulder at Jon.

“You are? For what?”

Jon feels nervous under the two men’s questioning stares, but he reminds himself that there’s nothing wrong about what he wants or what he intends on doing. Wanting to go see Ryan once again isn’t wrong.

“I thought I’d like to go looking for art again. For something Tom might like.”

It’s a lie; Tom’s more interested in photography than he is brush and oil paintings and besides, Jon doesn’t even have enough money for a second painting. Brendon and Spencer accept the excuse, though and Spencer agrees to do the work. Jon checks the schedule he got from Greta; the next train out to the city is due to leave in an hour and a half.

It gives Jon enough time to drink his own cup of coffee, eat his breakfast, and prepare Clover to leave. The three of them had decided that it’d be smartest if Jon rode Clover to the train station; Brendon is still a little gun-shy around her since her injury. Jon will ride Clover and Brendon and Spencer will both ride Dylan, and then once Jon leaves, the two of them will take the horses back to the farm.

Spencer is leading Dylan. Brendon is wound around Spencer’s backside, his arms circled loose around Spencer’s waist for balance. They arrive at the train station with thirty minutes to spare. Jon doesn’t make Brendon and Spencer wait around with him; he lets them take the horses back and he tells them that he’ll just walk home on his way back. It isn’t that far of a walk and it won’t be much trouble.

Jon spends the majority of the train ride thinking of what to say to Ryan. Ryan kind of reminds Jon of Roosevelt back when she first started coming around the farm. She’d been skittish, hurt in the past, or at least that’s what Jon had assumed. She hadn’t wanted to let Jon touch her and she was thin, obviously starving. To solve that problem, Jon had begun leaving bits of fat and left over milk out on the porch for her, and slowly but surely, Roosevelt warmed up to him.

Jon really doubts that the milk trick will work for Ryan.

Jon feels a little less lost in the city the second time around. He follows the same main street that’s cluttered with people and bulky black automobiles. He goes past the shops and restaurants that he and Brendon had explored, his eyes peeled for a rail-thin artist. Jon rounds the corner that leads up to the library; as he gets closer to the building, his heart sinks slowly to his feet. There’s no sign of a lithe body pressed up against the stone siding. He keeps going; just because Ryan isn’t at the library doesn’t mean he’s skipped town completely.

As Jon grows closer to the library, his heart begins to beat rapidly, too quick and too loud in a way Jon hasn’t been used to since the day Tom left for work. Jon gets right in front of the library, a smile breaking on to his face at the sight of a long body settled on the granite steps.

Ryan is sitting on the steps with his elbows on his knees and his hands tucked under his chin. There’s a typical square of blank canvas next to him and a large dark brown cloth bag near Ryan’s foot. Ryan looks up at Jon, who’s now standing right in front of him; his eyes grow wide in surprise.

“I found you,” Jon says with a happy laugh.

“I wasn’t aware you were looking for me to begin with, Mr. Walker.” Ryan smiles crookedly. Jon shrugs. He can’t exactly tell Ryan that it was fear and worry that provoked Jon into coming back to the city, or about his rather spontaneous decision to hop the next train out to see him.

“I was wondering if you had any other paintings,” Jon lies. He can at least fake that his interest was in the art and not the artist. Ryan scratches at the back of his neck and Jon takes note that he’s wearing gloves today.

“Haven’t really found much worth capturing here. I’m thinking I need a change of setting.”

“And a steady place to sleep?” Jon offers. Ryan smiles.

“It’s always about where I sleep, with you. Where do you sleep, Mr. Walker?”

“Well, I sleep in a modest two-story farm house in Kearney.”

Ryan fiddles with the strap of his bag. “Is it nice there?” Ryan isn’t looking at Jon as he asks; he’s staring off into the distance.

“Real nice,” Jon says quietly. Ryan hums softly, a pleasant noise, before he rounds his gaze to Jon.

“What’s the real reason you came to find me, Mr. Walker?”

Jon fidgets. “You can call me Jon.”

“Alright. Same question, Jon.”

Jon bites back his nerves; he doesn’t even really understand why he feels nervous to begin with. “If you need a place to stay – a place where you don’t have to worry about where you’re sleeping for the night or where you’re going to get your next meal from – I won’t mind you coming home with me.”

Jon remembers once overhearing his father describing his three sons to his friend. He described Jon’s oldest brother as smart, with a good head on his shoulders and who would be good for business. He said Jon’s middle brother would make a good husband, a good farmer; Jon’s father intended on leaving the farm to him. When it came time to describe Jon, his dad called him sensitive, caring, and made a joke about how when Jon was a kid, he’d cry any time one of the animals had to be killed.

Ryan’s eyes sweep over Jon, calculating, sizing him up, like he’s trying to determine why Jon is offering this to him.

“It’s a nice thought, but no one gets anything for free. What do you want in return?”

“Nothin’ much. You can be my farmhand,” Jon says with a grin. Harvest is coming up, after all, and the hay will grow in and need to be chopped and roped up. Jon’s going to need help.

“You want me to do farm work?” Ryan asks, disbelieving. He doesn’t say it like he thinks the idea is a bad one, but he says it like he thinks Jon might be a tad bit touched in the head.

“You’re capable, ain’t you? What could it hurt just coming to check the place out?” Jon suggests. He’s trying to coax Ryan into coming with him. Ryan stands and shoulders his cloth bag, lifts up his square of blank canvas. Jon wouldn’t at all be surprised if Ryan walked away from him right now; he knows this is all very sudden. Instead, though, Ryan walks down the stone steps and stops in front of Jon.

“Alright, you have a deal,” Ryan says as he offers Jon his hand.

“Do you have any business to take care of here? Anyone you want to talk to? Or can we head out?”

Jon is just a little nervous at how suddenly he’s decided to include Ryan Ross into his life. Ryan shakes his head. “Nah, I’m ready.”

Jon doesn’t know how long Ryan’s lived in the city, but he’s still surprised that there isn’t one person Ryan wants to say goodbye to. Jon and Ryan sit opposite each other on the train ride home, with Ryan looking as nervous as Jon feels.

“So, do you live alone on this farm?” Ryan asks.

“Oh, no, there’s another farmhand: Brendon. He was at the diner with me the other day. He lives upstairs, where I guess you’ll be staying, as well.”

“You guess?” Ryan asks. He sounds nervous now.

“Well, yeah; admittedly, I haven’t planned this out fully, so we’ll have to get you a cot somewhere or you know you can sleep on the sofa.” Jon smiles sheepishly. Ryan laughs. “My friend Tom lives there, too, but he’s away working right now, and he will be for about a week, week and a half.”

“What about that other gentleman? The one who was with you at the diner? He lives there, too?”

“Spencer? Nope, he lives in town, but he’s over ‘bout every day.”

“Sounds like you’ve got yourself a full house already,” Ryan points out. Jon waves him off.

“There’s always room for one more.”

They settle into a comfortable silence in which Jon tries to decide if he should ask Ryan the questions that pour through his mind at night. Despite not knowing Ryan for more than a day and a half, Jon can already tell he’s the type that won’t offer up information. He’s not like Brendon, who’s an open book for those around him.

“I’m interested, Ryan, why’d you leave Virginia? What made you choose a life of traveling?”

For the ghost of a second, Ryan’s face lapses, and Jon fears he’s already stepped some kind of boundary that Ryan has set up, but then he shrugs.

“Life there wasn’t working out for me the way I wanted. Things got bad, so I got going and I haven’t looked back since.”

Jon feels like there’s a whole hell of a lot that’s not being said, but Ryan’s obviously got walls up, and Jon’s not the type to go busting through those kinds of walls, no matter how much he’s interested.

“Oh,” Ryan says when the train rolls past the wooden sign announcing their impending arrival to Kearney. Jon looks from the window where he’d been staring at the rolling fields, all the hay and wheat gold near ready for harvest. He turns his gaze to Ryan.

Ryan digs in the front pocket of his soft cloth bag and pulls out the same shiny tin cup that he had with him on the streets. Ryan digs into the cup with long spidery fingers and pulls back with some change.

“Here,” he says to Jon. “I want to pay you back for the painting.” Ryan holds out his hand, offering up the change. Jon shakes his head and waves Ryan off.

“That’s not necessary. I purchased it.”

“But you’re sharing your home with me. Take it, please,” Ryan says. Jon sees a kind of quiet plea for his dignity, so he doesn’t argue. Jon opens his hand and lets Ryan drop the shining coins into his palm.

“Well, what’s mine is yours now, I suppose,” Jon says with a smile.

***

The sky is purpling by the time Jon and Ryan get to town. It’s cooled down, and Ryan looks around at all the flat, green land. Jon stares at the back of Ryan’s head and wishes he knew what Ryan was thinking.

“It’s quiet,” Ryan says softly.

“Sometimes... yeah.”

Ryan turns so he can face Jon. “Quiet is good, sometimes. It lets your mind work in a way it wouldn’t if it were cluttered with people and noise.”

Jon carries Ryan’s square of canvas for him as they go back to Jon’s house. The road is dusty and it’s smearing over Ryan’s black dress shoes. Ryan’s clothes aren’t in terrible shape; they’re pretty nice, kind of like Spencer’s, and it makes Jon think that maybe wherever it is that Ryan came from, it probably wasn’t a farm town.

“I’m guessin’ you’ve never done farm work, Ryan?” Jon asks as they grow near the center of town. Ryan laughs.

“Just a bit; once someone explains something to me, I catch on pretty quick.”

They pass through town. The post office is closed, as are a few of the other shops, but the small bar down the way is just coming to life, filled with farmers or townsfolk who need to blow off steam. Jon nods to the right. “My place is down this way.”

Ryan’s body gets stiffer the closer they get to the farm. Jon can almost see him drawing back into his shell, closing himself off. By the time they get to the house, it’s completely dark and the lights in the house are on. It’s strange to see his house alive with neither Tom nor Jon inside of it.

“Nice place,” Ryan says softly, Jon doesn’t detect sarcasm, so he smiles in response and wraps an arm around Ryan’s shoulders, pulling him up onto the porch.

“Welcome home.”

Ryan smiles as Jon goes and pushes the door open. Inside the house are Brendon and Spencer, sitting at the kitchen table with a half-eaten apple pie resting between them. The two of them look up at the sound of the door and their smiles fall away to be replaced by confused looks.

“You’re home,” Brendon says to Jon, but his gaze is locked firmly on Ryan, who’s standing behind Jon.

“Brendon, Spencer, this is Ryan Ross, the artist from the city.”

Spencer stands and wipes his hands on his dress pants before he comes around the table and offers Ryan his hand.

“I’m Spencer Smith.”

Ryan shakes Spencer’s hand, and then Brendon is fumbling to do the same. They exchange pleasantries and Brendon laughs as he takes his seat.

“You left for a painting and came back with the painter.”

Jon smiles and pats Ryan on the back. “Ryan here is coming on as a farmhand; he’ll be living here with us, Brendon.” Ryan still looks nervous, but Brendon’s smiling and Spencer is surveying him warmly. “Set your things down here and I’ll show you around,” Jon says. Ryan does as he’s told and Jon leaves Brendon and Spencer in the kitchen-cum-living-room as he shows Ryan around the rest of the house.

Ryan is silent, big eyes scanning the different things Jon points out.

“You’ll have to sleep on the sofa for the time being. I hope that’s alright?” Jon asks. He really didn’t fully think this through; he didn’t really apply Ryan Ross to the house, to his everyday life; he just knew he wanted to have this man around him. Ryan nods, removes his hat, and pushes a hand through his hair before he sets it back on his head.

“It’s fine, really. Thanks, Jon. I don’t remember the last time someone was so kind to me,” Ryan says uneasily. For a moment, Jon can see the person that lies behind the walls that Ryan has up, but it’s gone before he has the chance to do much with it. Jon just smiles and claps Ryan gently on the shoulder.

“You hungry?” Jon asks. Ryan opens his mouth to say something, but Jon cuts him off. “No matter what you answer, I’m going to make you eat dinner with me; keep that in mind.”

Ryan laughs. “I could eat.”

“Jon, you missed Ms. Salpeter’s visit,” Brendon mentions once he and Ryan are back downstairs. Jon tells Ryan to take a seat as he stands by the counter.

“Greta came by? I shoulda known you didn’t know how to bake a pie.”

Brendon scoffs. “I could bake a pie! I could definitely bake a pie!”

Spencer rests a hand on Brendon’s shoulder. “Don’t go declaring that in town now, Brendon.” Spencer turns his gaze to Jon. “Ms. Salpeter was very upset that you weren’t here,” he adds. Jon rolls his eyes and turns to the icebox. Greta is the middle daughter of a school teacher and a farmer. Both her younger and older sister are married with children, and Jon knows from Greta telling him many a times before that her family often chides her on the fact that she isn’t married.

“Leftovers from dinner are in the icebox,” Brendon points out. Jon nods and sets to fixing him and Ryan plates of food.

“So, Ryan,” Jon hears Spencer start. “Did you live in the city?”

“I was staying there for the time being; I had been living there for a couple of months.”

“Were you born here in Nebraska?” Brendon says.

“Ah, no, I was born in Virginia. I left there when I was about eighteen.”

“How old are you now?” Spencer says.

“Twenty-two.”

Jon worries for a moment that Spencer will ask for the reason Ryan left Virginia, something Jon learned on the train that Ryan doesn’t like explaining.

“Have you ever been to New York, Ryan?” Brendon asks suddenly, excitement evident in his voice. Jon relaxes.

“One of the first places I managed to get myself to,” Ryan answers. There’s a sort of nostalgic fondness in his voice, and Jon’s just glad for a change of subject. Brendon spends the next ten minutes or so asking Ryan questions about New York, about the buildings and the people, and if he ever managed to go to the music clubs. The two of them only stop talking once Jon’s set a plate of food down in front of Ryan.

Much to Jon’s relief, Ryan eats like he hasn’t had food in days, and Jon’s suddenly that much surer about his decision to bring the other boy to his home.

After dinner, Spencer leaves, and Brendon blinks all sleepy-eyed and asks where Ryan is going to sleep.

“On the sofa for now,” Jon answers. Brendon hums softly and decides to excuse himself when he sees Ryan yawning. After Brendon goes to bed, it’s just Jon and Ryan out in the main room. Jon smiles at Ryan and Ryan scoops up his bag and his blank canvas, moving the items over to the couch. “Let me get you a blanket and pillow,” Jon says. He goes to the closet and grabs up the extra comforters and feather down pillows that he and Tom keep in the closet in their room until winter.

When Jon comes back into the main room, Ryan has stripped off his layers, and he’s wearing a simple undershirt and his dress pants. Ryan’s folding up his coat and shirt and putting them in a pile on the floor near his cloth bag and canvas; his shoes and hat topping the pile.

Jon hands over the pillow and blanket and Ryan fixes himself up a small bed on the shabby couch.

“I’ll show you ‘round the farm in the morning,” Jon tells him. Without his hat on, Ryan’s got all this dark hair, and it falls shaggy around his face, makes him look younger and, in a way, more feminine, but he smiles softly and nods and settles himself down on the couch, his long body stretched out.

“Thank you for this, Jon,” Ryan says carefully. Jon warms at the mention of his first name, at the real warmth in Ryan’s voice, and he’s smiling even as he bids Ryan a goodnight. He’s still smiling as he sheds off his own clothes and crawls into bed.

***

Jon didn’t sleep as soundly last night as he typically does. Maybe it’s because he didn’t do his farm work, so he’s nowhere near as exhausted as he typically would be. It could also be that he strained to listen for each movement from Ryan; the creak of the sofa as Ryan turned in his sleep or the sound of feet padding against hardwood floor in case Ryan needed to go use the outhouse.

He’s not tired when he wakes up the next morning, breakfast waiting for him on the table and no one in the house. Jon eats breakfast quickly. Ryan’s bag and stretch of canvas is still inside the house, so Jon doesn’t think he’s left anywhere, but he doesn’t want to leave Ryan alone for too long. He’s trying to build trust, here.

Ryan is sitting outside on the wooden steps of the porch, a piece of charcoal and a large pad of sketching paper in his lap. His fingers are stained black and his head is tipped down as he sketches. He’s dressed in the same clothes that Jon always sees him in and his hat is placed firmly back on his head.

Ryan looks up as Jon steps out on to the porch and he smiles. Ryan sets aside his sketch book and charcoal and is quick to stand up, dirty hands dragging up his pant legs. “Good morning,” Ryan says, and Jon mimics the greeting. From the porch, Jon can already see Brendon in the distance, bouncing around inside the horse barn. It doesn’t look like Spencer is over.

“You might want to take your coat off,” Jon suggests. Ryan looks down at himself before his long fingers are undoing the buttons on his dark coat and he’s slipping it off. Under the coat, Ryan is wearing a soft thin white button up; the first few buttons around his throat are undone.

Just by looking at him, Jon can tell that Ryan is definitely too small to carry the loads of water; his arms are thin and his shoulders and back are sharp. He’s got no fat on him, but with the lack of fat comes the lack of muscle. Some of the plants are ahead of schedule and have ripened a few weeks earlier than the harvest; Jon figures he can have Ryan do that.

“You don’t mind some harvesting, do you?” Jon asks. Ryan shakes his head; he’s got this look about him, bright and eager to show Jon what he’s made of. It reminds Jon of Brendon. Jon nods and slips back into the house, returning with the basket he uses to carry groceries. He hands over the basket to Ryan and leads him out into the field. “Some of the grapes are ripe, and the vegetables are, too. You’ll have to pick them and put them in the root cellar till harvest.”

“I can do that. No problem,” Ryan says and Jon grins and leaves him to the work so he can go and fetch the watering device. The day is unforgivably hot, and within an hour, the three of them lose their shirts. Ryan is bent over in the field a few feet up from Jon, plucking grapes. Like this, Jon can count all the knots of Ryan’s spine; can see all the sharp points of his ribs.

Brendon finishes up his work in the barn and he comes into the field to talk with Jon. Brendon’s once fair skin is light brown with the beginnings of a tan from outdoor work.

“Need some help?” Brendon asks Ryan. Ryan looks up and he looks unsure, skittish, and it reminds Jon once again of Roosevelt when she first started coming around the farm.

“Um, sure,” Ryan says, and Brendon beams and moves to begin helping Ryan. It doesn’t work too well, though; Ryan zigs, Brendon zags, and their hands bump together awkwardly. Jon can see Ryan shrinking back, closing up out of fear of messing up.

“Brendon,” Jon begins. “It’s mighty hot out here; maybe you should make us some lemonade?”

Brendon flashes a grin. “Sure, Jon.” He leaves the field to go into the house. Ryan looks more than relieved; he practically loosens up on the spot. Ryan turns grateful eyes on Jon and he rubs at his neck awkwardly.

“I’m still adjusting, I guess.”

“Brendon means well, but he can be a lot at first.”

“Has he lived here long?” Ryan asks.

“Nah, ‘bout two weeks or so, before you came along.”

“Were you born here in Nebraska?” Ryan asks after a moment. Jon perks at the question, at the fact that Ryan’s at least somewhat interested in him and his life here; he knows his stories will be nowhere near as exciting as what Ryan’s lived through, but it’s still a step in a direction that Jon wants to go in.

They spend their time in the field. Jon tells Ryan about his life so far. He had been hoping that maybe if he told his story, Ryan would tell more of his own, about what happened in Virginia that drove him to a life of traveling, or maybe he would tell Jon about how he became interested in art, how he learned to paint. But aside from commenting on Jon’s life, Ryan says nothing of his own. Jon tries not to feel too disheartened by that.

Once their work is completed, they go back to the porch, where Brendon has the sweating picture of lemonade sitting on the railing. He’s sitting on the steps with a long stretch of patchwork cloth on his lap, and he’s sewing; what it is, Jon isn’t sure.

“What are you working on, Brendon?” Jon asks. Brendon looks up briefly from his work before his eyes flick back down to the pink patch he’s sewing.

“Well, I figured since we have Ryan now, and Tom’s coming home soon, it’d be good if I learned how to make cots. Won’t be nothing fancy, but it’s better than sleeping on the floor, right?”

Jon hadn’t thought about that, about how once Tom comes home it’s going to be expected that he doesn’t sleep in the same bed as Jon. They’ll have to go on the lie that he and Tom take turns sleeping in the main bedroom while the other sleeps upstairs or on the sofa. After so long apart, Jon doesn’t think either of them will be able to handle the added distance. Inadvertently, Jon has ruined the safe haven he and Tom had created.

“Yeah, good idea, Brendon,” Jon mumbles, suddenly feeling sick to his stomach.

***

The days slip by and Tom is closer and closer to coming home. Jon is still excited; he’s beyond relieved to see his lover once again, but there’s a steeping undercurrent of nerves knotting up his stomach, and that undercurrent feels like it’s growing stronger every day. Besides that, things are fine around the farm. Ryan has finally gotten comfortable around Brendon; he smiles easier and he stays up with them, talking, still not about his own life, but that’s okay. Jon can wait until he’s ready.

This particular night, Brendon is upstairs, working on his cots, and Jon and Ryan are at the table. Jon’s gotten out the whiskey to calm his nerves, and Ryan’s sitting across from him with his sketch book propped against the table, turned up so Jon can’t see what he’s drawing. He can still see the graceful curve of Ryan’s arm turning as he draws, the quiet concentration etched on Ryan’s soft face.

“What are you drawing?” Jon asks, his thoughts just a little loosened by the cup of whiskey in his hand. Ryan peers at him from over the very top of the sketch book, eyes light and happy.

“Nothing, really, just the fields and your house.”

“Can I see?” Jon asks. Ryan shifts and shakes his head.

“It’s not finished.”

Jon takes a long drink of his whiskey.

“My dad’s drink of choice was whiskey,” Ryan mentions. It sounds offhand, but it’s also careful, something heavy lurking below the surface of his words.

“Oh?”

“The smell reminds me of him,” Ryan says. He still has the sketchbook in place, but Jon can tell that he’s no longer drawing.

“Did he drink it a lot?” Jon asks with as much tact as he can muster with a drink in him. Ryan laughs, shallow and harsh.

“The man was an alcoholic, drank every night when he got home from the coal mines, drank a bit before he left for work, too, and I suspect during his breaks.”

“I’m sorry. Was that the reason you left Virginia?”

Jon is quiet as he waits for Ryan to answer; he doesn’t want to upset the man. Ryan carefully closes his sketchbook, lays it on the table, and then folds his hands over the cracked, leathery cover.

“That wasn’t the reason. I was pretty used to his drinking by the time I hit fifteen. My father was a coal miner, just like his father was and his father before that. So naturally, when I came of age, my dad wanted me to take to the coals as well. I told him no and that’s what caused the problem.” Ryan speaks soberly, his eyes focused on his charcoal-stained fingers as they rap against the front of the sketchpad.

Jon pushes away his whiskey and tries to catch Ryan’s gaze. “He didn’t take too kindly to the idea?”

Ryan laughs that sharp laugh once again, “Hardly. I told him my desire to become a painter. He didn’t take to that, either; see, my mom was an artist and she ditched us when I was only almost two years old. I haven’t heard from her since. When I told my dad that I wanted to paint, well, he called me a queer and told me to leave if I was going to shame him, if I wasn’t going to carry on the family tradition. I took his advice, I suppose.”

It’s the back-story of Ryan’s life, the one that Jon had pondered time and time again, and even though he now knows, in a way he wishes he didn’t; he wishes he didn’t have to know that Ryan went through that kind of pain. Jon’s at a loss for words and a silent heavy tension fills the room.

“You mind if I have a snatch?” Ryan asks, gesturing to the whiskey. Jon shakes his head quickly and offers over the bottle, their fingers brushing warm and solid as Jon passes the heavy bottle. Ryan takes a long pull from the drink and he passes it back to Jon, their fingers brushing again. Jon takes the bottle and sips from it instead of his glass, the rim wet from the alcohol and Ryan’s mouth.

“You say your mom took off when you were a kid,” Jon begins. He takes a swig of whiskey and wipes his hand across his mouth before he finishes, “Is you traveling your way of trying to find her?”

“I’ve thought about it, but I’m not really interested in seeing her again,” Ryan explains. “I mostly just travel when I get bored of the place I’m in, of the people around me. You don’t ever get that feeling? That urgent tug on your body that tells you to find something new?”

“Hasn’t really happened yet. I guess I like the people around me.”

“Ah, you’ve found someone worth sticking around for,” Ryan says as if he’s figured out one of life’s great mysteries. They’ve been sharing the bottle for a while now, and Jon wonders how long it takes Ryan to get drunk.

“I suppose so, yeah.”

Ryan passes the bottle, but this time he grabs Jon’s wrist, keeps him from pulling back with the bottle. Ryan’s eyes are heavy and his mouth lax, and Jon feels a small thrill of something traveling up and down his spine.

“Is it that woman who came by while you were out? Ms. Salpeter?”

Jon laughs. “Nope. Greta is just a friend; a good friend, but a friend nonetheless.”

Ryan hums and releases Jon’s wrist. Jon can still feel the loop of Ryan’s fingers on him and his skin feels red-hot where Ryan touched it. It’s a feeling Jon’s not familiar with; well, no, that’s a lie. It’s a feeling he’s not used to having with anyone but Tom.

“Another woman then? In town?” Ryan’s eyes have a glassy glaze to them; Jon’s thinking he’s a bit of a lightweight.

“Nah, no woman.”

“Brendon?”

“He’s a friend.”

“What about Spencer?” Ryan presses. He’s got the bottle again and his drink is deeper this time, his mouth curling with the aftertaste.

“What exactly are you asking me?” Jon says. He has an idea but no … no, Ryan can’t be asking that.

“Tell me about Tom,” Ryan says instead. He hiccups as he pushes the bottle back to Jon.

“Tom is my best friend.”

“Then you stay here for Tom?”

“This is our house.”

“Seems kind of strange,” Ryan mutters, “To stay for someone who’s often away.”

“You sure do loosen up after a few drinks, don’t you?” Jon teases and Ryan laughs. “Tell me now, Ryan; tell me if there’s someone waiting for you?”

“There was a girl that I met in New York. Real nice. I almost married her,” Ryan says. Jon ignores the pang of disappointment in the fact that Ryan obviously enjoys the company of women. Why should he care who Ryan chooses to lie with at night?

“What happened?” Jon asks.

“Marriage isn’t exactly part of the whole traveling painter scene.”

“No one since then?” Jon asks. The whiskey bottle is at the dregs and Jon lets Ryan have the last drink.

“Figure it’s best not to leave a trail of broken hearts behind me. Who knows where I’ll end up? I don’t want to have enemies in every state.”

The whiskey is gone and they sit in silence for a long moment. Jon certainly learned a lot about Ryan tonight. When he lifts his gaze to Ryan’s face, he sees Ryan’s eyes are drooped closed, his hand lax around the bottle.

“Alright, Ross, time for sleep,” Jon murmurs. It’s been a while since he’s drank, so he wobbles a little on his feet as he stands. Ryan is gone, loose and pliant when Jon has to heft him to his feet, his hands tucked under Ryan’s arms, tugging him forward. Ryan mumbles something. The empty whiskey bottle tips over and clatters on the kitchen table, but Ryan doesn’t even open his eyes.

Somehow, Jon gets it in his head that Ryan should sleep in his bed and he’ll take the couch. Jon stumbles into his bedroom, dragging Ryan along and he loses his balance just as he’s about to turn and set Ryan down. Jon ends up flat on his back on the bed with Ryan’s frail body laid over his own, Ryan’s face cushioned in the crook of his neck. Jon can feel the gentle brush of Ryan’s breath against his skin.

Jon should move Ryan off of him, he really fucking should, but he’s missed this, the feel of a body lying on top of him, of the slow steady beat of another heart against his chest and the calm breathing of two bodies falling asleep. Jon thinks of Tom and guilt seeps thick and dark in his stomach. Tom’s coming home to him and Tom is most certainly not sleeping next to someone else right now.

But Jon can’t bring himself to move his own arms, and his eyes feel heavy. Ryan smells good and he’s a comfortable weight, the two of them sprawled on Jon and Tom’s bed, legs tangled and work clothes still on. Jon’ll have to wash the smell of sweat out of the sheets now, but as he drifts off to sleep, it’s not a huge concern.

***

Jon wakes up late to Brendon standing in the doorway with a concerned and mildly horrified look on his face and a warm, lean body lying next to his own. Sometime during the night, he and Ryan must’ve moved. The both of them are now lying the right way on the bed, Jon on Tom’s side and Ryan on Jon’s. Brendon clears his throat as Jon blinks away the last clinging remainders of sleep.

“Sorry to wake you, but, um, we’re losing daylight, and you always told me to wake you if it got past eleven.”

“Its okay, Brendon,” Jon says, cringing at how late of a start he’s getting on the day. At this rate, it’ll be dark by the time he finishes. Brendon looks at Ryan’s sleeping form and then he looks at Jon and nods.

“There’s some early lunch on the table,” he says before he leaves the room. Jon sighs and rubs at his eyes before he slides from his rumpled bed.

“Ryan, come on, wake up,” Jon grumbles, his voice rough from the alcohol and the sleep. Ryan stirs finally. He sits up, hair disheveled and eyes tinged red.

“What? What time is it?” Ryan slurs.

“Eleven.”

“Shit.” Ryan blinks and looks around the room before he looks over at Jon. “Did I sleep in your bed?”

“Looks like we fell asleep here,” Jon says. He remembers all of last night, their conversation and how he had meant to leave Ryan in the bed and he himself go to the couch. Jon pointedly doesn’t look at Ryan. He feels irritated at himself for letting Ryan sleep in his and Tom’s bed. A fresh wave of guilt crashes over Jon.

Jon doesn’t say anything as he leaves the room. He wonders what Brendon thinks, if Brendon’s put all the pieces together yet, if perhaps he’ll tell Spencer. Jon scarfs down his breakfast, and he and Ryan don’t talk as they eat. When Jon finishes, he puts his plate in the sink and heads outside.

Jon pours all his frustration and guilt into his work. He works harder so he can hurt longer; the hurt is distracting from his thoughts. Brendon’s long since taken care of the animals and he tells Jon that he’s going to ride the horses out today, get them their exercise.

Ryan comes out into the field and Jon feels himself tense up.

“Hey Jon, I don’t... I don’t really remember how I got in your room last night, but I wanted to apologize. Too much whiskey, I guess.” Ryan tries to laugh it off, but he gives up when he notices that Jon’s not joining in.

“It’s alright, Ryan. I put you in my bed; I was trying to sleep on the couch myself, but I must’ve lost my balance and passed out.”

“Oh. Well, what should I do today?” Ryan asks. He had managed to pluck all the ripened fruit and store it away in baskets in the root cellar.

“Can you take some of the canned preserves from the attic and put them in the cupboards downstairs?

“Sure, yeah, no problem.”

Jon doesn’t mean to be short with Ryan; he doesn’t deserve it. Ryan leaves the field and goes into the house. Jon wants to blame it on the whiskey, but the more he thinks about it, the more he discovers that he’s harboring feelings for Ryan; dangerous feelings, feelings that he shouldn’t be having, feelings he hasn’t had since Tom.

Jon didn’t know what being gay was when he was younger; he never even considered that loving another man was an option until Jon’s own father mentioned it late one night. He talked about those men who lived alone or with other men and never married, but still seemed perfectly happy. Queers is what he called them, voice thick with silent anger.

Even though Jon was a kid, he knew the word wasn’t one to be said in public, in town; it was something kept at home and only when you were absolutely sure about a man. Jon’s father told him that he’d just as quickly get his ass kicked if he accused a man of being a queer without being absolutely sure.

Jon knew the word and he knew of the possibilities, but none of it really clicked for him until he hit his teenage years, until he noticed in particular how Tom had filled out, strong muscled arms and ginger colored scruff, when he realized that he really wouldn’t mind spending the rest of the day, or hell, even the rest of his life, kissing Tom.

Jon’s parents never found them out; they were good about keeping it a secret, careful and Jon’s father died thinking all three of his sons would marry women. Jon’s mom still doesn’t know, but sometimes when she writes to him, he thinks she might have her suspicions. He knows she’ll never bring it up.

Jon didn’t actually think that his being gay was only a reaction to Tom, but he’s never met another man that evoked those same burning feelings that set his chest ablaze. Now, though, Ryan … Ryan is good looking and smart and mysterious, and Jon knows he’s been feeling that same invisible pull towards the younger man; he’s just been trying desperately to ignore it.

He ends up working until nightfall; Brendon brought the horses back a couple hours after he left and he went inside with Ryan to work on his cots. Spencer hasn’t been by in two days and Jon almost misses how he keeps Brendon busy.

They make bean soup that night with the cans that Ryan brought down from the attic. It’s quiet in the house, the awkward heavy tension still hanging thick in the air. They eat in silence, using their fatigue from work as a reason for the silence. After dinner, Ryan cracks open his sketchpad and starts drawing. Brendon goes and sits in the little old recliner to the right of the front door, pushed against the wall, a box of thread resting on the floor to his left; he’s working on his cots again.

Jon does the dishes and then retires to the bedroom. He kicks off his shoes and lies back on the bed, the sheets smell faintly of dirt and sweat and alcohol. Jon rolls on to his stomach and buries his face into Tom’s pillow. It still smells like Tom with just a masking of Jon’s own scent on top of it. Jon hadn’t used Tom’s pillow in all this time, so the smell of him would remain.

He grabs up the other pillow and inhales; he smells a faint, earthy smell; Ryan. Jon’s body tingles at the scent, at the memory of warmth on top of him, surrounding him. His cock twitches in his trousers and he aches to have someone besides his own hand touching him. Jon aches for Tom.

He closes his eyes and lets his hand slide down his thigh, moving to cup his half hard dick through the rough fabric of his slacks. With his eyes closed, Jon breathes out a shaky breath and he pictures long fingers wrapping around him and dark hair falling into equally dark eyes. Jon gasps sharply and he sits up in a flash, hand leaving his dick.

Jon shifts on the bed so he can look out into the kitchen. Ryan is still at the table, drawing, and Jon hadn’t heard Brendon go upstairs yet. He rests back on his bed, arms and legs sore and tired, and before Jon knows it he’s asleep.

***

It’s raining the next morning, steady yet not too heavy. Jon welcomes the rain, the chance at having a break from laboring in the fields. He gets up and goes to the window; the sun has risen already, but it’s hidden away by the gray clouds. Jon pushes the window in his bedroom up and lets the cool air roll in against his sleep-warm skin.

Jon changes his clothes and puts on one of his more ragged shirts and a worn pair of dress pants. He won’t need to water the field, so it’ll give him a chance to tidy up the house in preparation for Tom’s arrival. Jon creeps out into the living room, and Ryan is lying on the couch, his back facing Jon, arms curled around him and knees bent. There’s a plate of food on the table and Jon assumes Brendon is out tending to the animals. He doesn’t think Brendon is one to mind the rain.

Next to the plate of food on the table is Ryan’s cracked and faded sketchbook. Jon ignores it while he eats, but he’s actually always wanted to know what Ryan works on at night. Jon peers at the couch and Ryan’s still, his breathing shallow with sleep. Jon opens the book and on the first large page of slightly yellowing paper is a pencil sketch of a house. The house is of medium sized, no porch, made of brick, with what looks like vines creeping over the face.

Jon turns the pages quietly, finding pictures of houses and buildings, mountains. There’s a drawing of a woman on one of the pages; it looked like she had been posing for him, her smile small and easy, and even though it’s a drawing Jon can see the absolute adoration in the woman’s eyes, curls falling around her shoulders. Jon feels uncomfortable and his chest prickles with unease. He turns the page and catches blurry quick sketches of slender hands and legs in a dancer’s pose.

The pages after that are filled with charcoal-black replications of buildings from the twin cities, the diner that Spencer had taken them to. Jon stops at the pages after that. The images are of hands, strong hands and forearms suspended in air, the body they belong to missing.

In the corner, there’s a drawing of a hand wrapped around the neck of a liquor bottle. Jon’s not dense enough to not notice or at least suspect that he’s looking at his own hand. Jon flicks his gaze up to Ryan, who’s still sleeping, and he turns a page. The next page has the very obvious drawing of a man with a naked back, muscles tight and the familiar watering device resting on his shoulders, head tipped up and hair dark and shaggy.

Jon’s breath quickens; Ryan drew him, his hands and Jon wonders if all those nights Jon’s asked to see his drawings these were the ones that Ryan didn’t want to show. Jon dares to flip to the next page; there is a large scale drawing of Jon’s face, eyes closed, dark charcoal lashes fanning against yellowed-paper cheeks. The Jon in the drawing, his mouth is parted slightly, and he looks to be fast asleep.

Jon swallows down the thick lump forming in his throat and closes up the book. He looks up to Ryan, his heart beating too quick, rapidly thumping loud against the cage of his chest. Ryan had to have drawn this particular picture last night after Jon passed out, which meant that Ryan knew he was in Jon’s bed this morning, but feigned ignorance, perhaps out of fear that he himself had fumbled his way into Jon’s bed and didn’t remember Jon taking him there.

Ryan stirs on the couch and Jon bolts upright, dropping his plate on the counter before he goes outside to stand under the covered porch. The rain is still falling steady, creating a hissing sound that rings throughout the farm. Through the curtain of rain in the far off distance Jon can see Brendon coming in from the horse barn. Brendon is soaked to the bone, his dress shirt sticking to his skin.

“You’re up pretty early,” Brendon says when he reaches the porch. Jon steps back and Brendon shakes himself off like a dog, droplets of water flying everywhere.

“Yeah well, to make up for yesterday,” Jon laughs. “I was thinkin’, since it’s raining today, it might be a good day to clean up the house.”

“For Tom?” Brendon ventures a guess.

“Isn’t much else to do,” Jon answers.

They go back into the house and Ryan’s finally roused, sitting on the couch and finger brushing his dark locks.

“Raining?” he asks and Brendon’s the one who answers him. Jon goes around the house and opens all the windows, letting in the cool air and keeping the house from getting muggy.

“We’re working inside today,” Brendon chirps as he goes round to take the stairs up to the attic. Jon is back in the kitchen and he sees Ryan stretch and scratch at the flat plane of his stomach.

“I think Brendon left some breakfast in the skillet for you,” Jon says, but he doesn’t look at Ryan; he looks at the wooden floor with the thin layer of dirt covering it.

“Alright,” Ryan replies, his voice a soft whisper that almost gets lost in the hiss of the rain.

When Brendon comes back downstairs, he’s carrying the large metal tub behind him. It’s the rounded tub Jon and Tom use to wash clothes or bathe in. “I figured,” Brendon starts, “That we might as well do laundry while we’re at it.” The tub is heavy and Ryan moves to help Brendon carry it into the living room. Brendon hasn’t changed out of his rain soaked clothes yet, and when Jon eyes him Brendon tells him that it’s because he needs to go back outside anyway to fetch some water from the pump round back.

“Wouldn’t it be easier to just take the tub outside and fill it with the pump?” Ryan asks.

“Will you help me carry it in when it gets too heavy?” Brendon asks sweetly, Ryan smiles and nods.

“Kind of ridiculous to collect water when it’s raining,” Ryan jokes; Brendon laughs and sets the tub down before he bounds back outside. Ryan moves past Jon to get some food from the skillet and Jon catches that earthy smell that covers his own pillowcase. He lets his eyes drift close for a split second before he catches himself.

Jon hurries into his and Tom’s room and proceeds to strip off the sheets and the pillowcases that now smell more of Jon and Ryan than they do of Tom. Jon can’t shake the image of a tipsy Ryan watching him while he slept or how pretty Ryan made Jon look on paper. It makes Jon’s cheeks flush and his heart race and he shakes the thoughts away, throws the bedding on the floor of his room.

If Brendon is doing the laundry, then Jon will probably sweep the floors and Ryan can do the dishes and the windows. They work in a comfortable silence. Jon usually likes to fill the space with talk, but he’s stuck in his own thoughts, trapped by the confusing swirl of emotions bubbling in his chest.

He’s attracted to Ryan, there’s no doubt about it, but his heart remains firmly intact with Tom.

“You’re washing your bedding, Jon?” Brendon asks from his spot on his knees on the floor, bent over the tub and wringing out one of Jon’s shirts.

“Yeah, but you don’t have to do that, Bren.”

“It’s no trouble,” Brendon assures.

Jon goes and pushes open the front door, sweeps the dirt out on to the porch. Ryan is washing dishes in a small basin of water and his eyes flicker to Jon, he smiles and Jon returns it, small and careful. While Jon’s sweeping the dirt off the porch, he sees a figure walking in the rain, a dark umbrella in their hand. At first, Jon thinks its Spencer, but as the figure grows closer, he can see that the person is short and carrying a large bag. For a brief second, Jon believes its Tom, but he knows better. It’s too early.

“Hey, Jon!” Pete calls through the drowning sound of the rain. Pete’s out delivering the mail for the day and even though Tom’s not home maybe Jon can be hopeful for a letter from him.

“Pete, how are you fairing in the weather?” Jon calls from the porch. He walks down to the right, to the end of the porch that’s closest to the driveway near the mailbox. Pete comes up the drive, heavy burlap bag slung around his waist, his umbrella blocking the rain from damaging the letters.

“Good, they gave me a hat,” Pete says with a sarcastic enthusiasm, tapping the white wide brimmed hat on his head. “I have a letter for you,” Pete adds. He’s up on the porch now; his uniform damped by the rain and he’s panting slightly as he sets his umbrella against the railing and digs in the bag for Jon’s letter.

Pete hands over a slightly crumpled letter and Jon beams, flipping the letter over to see the scrawl of Tom’s handwriting. The address states the letter was mailed from Missouri. Tom is growing closer to home by the days.

“I bet you farmers enjoy these rainy days,” Pete says.

“Not much of a break I still have to go and check the fields for plants that didn’t get enough water.”

“Still better than sloshing through ankle deep mud when you could be spending the day with your son,” Pete sighs. Pete married a business man’s daughter; Ashlee, she comes from a long line of rich blood and yet she married Pete, a simple mail man for a small farming town.

“You got many more deliveries?” Jon asks. He’s really itching to tear open the letter and see what Tom has to say about Brendon staying there; he doesn’t even know about Ryan yet. Pete must be able to see Jon’s anticipation; he’s been delivering the link between Tom and Jon for long enough now.

“Not too many. You enjoy your letter now, Walker, and I’ll see you later,” Pete says. He gives a little salute to Jon before he picks back up his umbrella and soldiers off into the rain. Jon watches him go before he goes back into the house, setting the broom against the wall. Brendon is still on his knees washing the sheets of Jon’s bed while Ryan has a rag in his hand, scrubbing down the panes of glass.

“You got a letter?” Brendon asks as Jon goes to lean against the counter, his fingers already working open the envelope.

“From Tom,” Jon supplies. He sets the envelope down on the counter and opens the letter. He doesn’t miss the fact that Ryan’s watching him as he scrubs down the window and again Jon has the weighted feeling that Ryan knows exactly what he and Tom are trying to hide.

Tom’s letter is much shorter this time around. He says that he has no problem with Brendon living with them as long as he’s a good worker and he mentions how they’ll have to be more careful. Tom tells Jon that it won’t be long before he’s home now and Jon’s chest swells at the words. It’s re-affirming in a way, showing him just how happy he really is with Tom.

Jon folds up the letter and tucks it back into its envelope before he goes to add it to the ever growing collection in the tin box. He’s aware of the dopey grin on his face but Tom being so close to home has him lighting up from the inside out.

“You always get that look on your face after reading one of Tom’s letters,” Brendon muses from the floor. Jon shrugs.

“He has a way with words, what can I say,” God, there’s even a dreamy quality to Jon’s voice; it’d be embarrassing if he wasn’t so sick for Tom.

Brendon’s finally finished with the laundry and because of the rain outside they have to light a fire in the fireplace to dry the clothes and the linens.

“The wood’s upstairs,” Jon tells Brendon. Ryan perks up and offers to go and fetch it since he finished washing the windows five minutes ago. Jon and Brendon listen to Ryan take the stairs and they hear him bumping around as he collects the wood they have piled up in the corner in the attic. Ryan starts coming back downstairs and through the railing Jon can see the thick cuts of log are blocking Ryan’s vision.

“Let me help you, Ryan,” Jon starts; he makes his way over to the stairs and makes to help Ryan. Ryan apparently misjudges the next step and his foot slips, his body pitching forward. Jon catches Ryan around the waist, his hands on Ryan’s sharp points of hips to steady him. A few logs fall heavy on the stairs but Ryan keeps his footing and half the wood in his arms.

They’re too close, Ryan’s skin is warm through the cloth of his thin shirt and Jon can feel it burning like fire against his palms. Their faces are close too because of the fallen logs and like this Ryan is even prettier than Jon had originally thought. Jon breathes out carefully and he can see his breath ruffling the soft tendrils of Ryan’s hair.

Jon thinks how simple it’d be to just reach up and cup Ryan’s cheek, turn his head and fit their mouths together in a searing kiss. Jon’s afraid of just how easy it would be. His fingers curl around Ryan’s hips of their own accord and Ryan gasps lightly, pink mouth parted just a little.

“You’d better...” Jon’s voice is gruff and he swallows to clear the haze, “You’d better put those logs in the fireplace.” Jon’s voice is too low, soft and his hands haven’t left Ryan’s body. Ryan’s eyes are flickering with something that both worries and enthralls Jon.

“I should... of course.” Ryan’s voice is no better than Jon’s, lower than usual and seeping something Jon would like to explore. Jon forces his hands off of Ryan’s hips, a part of him, a dark burning part of him wishes he had squeezed hard enough to forge bruises on the soft pale skin so the next time Ryan worked without a shirt on Jon would be able to see the dark copies of his fingerprints, see where he had briefly touched.

Jon turns and grabs the fallen logs, walks to the fireplace and leans them against the red brick face. Brendon isn’t in the living room and Jon freezes at the thought of him seeing what had just happened, but then the door opens and Brendon is carrying the now empty metal tub.

“The rain’s letting up,” Brendon chirps cheerfully. He stops briefly and looks to Ryan who’s still standing halfway up the staircase with an armful of wood and Jon who’s leaning against the counters. Jon knows he has a sour look on his face; he’s angry at himself, at his thoughts and the desires that cropped up out of nowhere and are now becoming more and more frequent.

“That’s good. I’ll have to go and check the field when it finally stops,” Jon says distractedly, but his mind is on anything but working in the field. He feels guilty, awful for having these thoughts of Ryan; a man he barely knows and a man who seems more than straight. Jon imagines briefly that even if he were to make a move on Ryan it’d only be returned with disgust and the word for Jon and Tom’s kind that was favored by Jon’s father.

Ryan finally comes into the room and he folds his long body down in front of the fireplace. He sets the logs in place, grabs the matches off the table where Jon had set them. Ryan lights the fire and Brendon proceeds to hang the sheets and pillowcases and clothing on the thin metal grate that they use to cover the fireplace sometimes.

The rain finally lets up sometime late into the night, just after Brendon’s gone to sleep and Ryan’s out at the table sketching. Jon doesn’t bother to ask what it is that Ryan’s working on; he has a fleeting feeling that it might be him. The rain quiets down just as Jon makes his bed up with the fresh, clean sheets that are still a little warm from the fire and smell faintly of smoke.

The pillowcases now lack Tom’s scent so Jon moves to the dresser and grabs up Tom’s cologne; he mists the fabric once, twice and he collects one of Tom’s older shirts from the closet and settles down on to the bed with it. It smells of Tom’s skin and sweat, and the sweet echo of his cologne clings to the fabric.

Jon holds the fabric in his hands, close to his face as he drifts off to sleep, holding on to the hope that his dreams will consist purely of his lover, his best friend.

***

Jon manages to make his life feel normal those next few days. The three of them do their work, Spencer’s visits resume; turns out he was staying with his dad in the city the days he hadn’t come by the farm. Jon lets Brendon cut some of the hay that’s ripened to a nice golden color and the boy spends the night sitting on the porch with the door open, talking to Jon and Ryan as he bends off the sharp points of the hay stalks, packing them into the cloth shells that make up the cots.

Brendon makes three cots; once they’re finished he asks Jon for permission to ask Spencer to spend the night. Brendon is nervous and bouncing a little and even if Jon had wanted to say no there’s no way he would’ve been able to. He tries not to find anything strange about Brendon wanting Spencer to spend the night, he sees Brendon in an innocent, childlike sort of way and he thinks Brendon wants Spencer to be in the attic so Brendon has someone to talk to at night.

Jon stops silently blaming Ryan for the tension that had recently surfaced between them. They go back to talking in the fields and after dinner. Jon keeps mentally ticking down the days until he thinks Tom will be there, they don’t have time for letters anymore, if Jon were to send one back to Tom it’d end up right back here in Kearney.

Finally the day arrives that Jon believes is the day Tom’s due to come home. He doesn’t know the time so he resists the urge to go down to the train station. He forces himself to stick around the fields and do his work, his gaze leaping to the dirt beaten trail, waiting for a familiar figure, cloaked in black.

Ryan is working amongst the hay, cutting what’s ready to be bundled and tied. Brendon is doing Ryan’s typical job of plucking the ever ripening fruit.

“Does Tom know about Ryan?” Brendon asks suddenly when he catches Jon staring at the road for something like the tenth time. Jon looks over at Brendon and shakes his head.

“Nah, didn’t get around to telling him in the letters.”

“Think he’ll be upset? That Ryan’s here?”

“Why would he? Ryan’s a great person. He works hard and he does what he really loves regardless of consequences.”

“So they won’t clash?”

“I think Tom will get along fine with Ryan. Ryan’s a good fella, Tom’s a good fella, and they can swap stories about traveling. I don’t think Tom’s been to all the places Ryan has but they overlap a lot.”

“You know,” Brendon begins, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, “When you talk about Ryan you get the same kind of light in your eyes as you do when you read one of Tom’s letters.”

Jon fights the urge to flush, he wants to say that he doesn’t but he can’t because he feels like... like maybe he does? Lately his chest gets tight at the thought of both men. Maybe he’s a hell of a lot more obvious than he thought or maybe Brendon is just far more observant than Jon gives him credit for.

“There’s no light,” Jon laughs. Brendon just smiles as if he can read directly into Jon’s head and see all the thoughts that even Jon won’t own up to. Jon only dares to glance at Ryan once Brendon goes back to working in the field. When Jon finally looks at Ryan it’s only to see Ryan looking right back at him.

Jon’s just finishing up the work in the field when he hears Brendon calling his name in the distance. Jon looks at Brendon who promptly points past him and in the direction of the road. Jon’s heart bursts with excitement and he shrugs off the wooden device before he turns slowly, breath caught in his throat. He’s hoping to see Tom, he wants Tom.

Jon turns to face the road and just a few feet away Jon sees a familiar figure; black peacoat and a bag slung over his shoulder, dirty blonde hair. It’s Tom. A grin breaks over Jon’s face, his body’s first and only instinct is to rush to Tom, to hold him and kiss him, just touch him so he knows Tom is real.

He doesn’t actually think he can wait for Tom to walk the expanse of feet from the road to the farm; he can’t wait. Jon dusts his hands off on his pants and he starts walking towards Tom, intent on meeting him halfway. The walk turns into a jog and the closer Jon gets the more details he gains. Tom’s broad smile and scruffy beard, the soot on the back of his hand that’s clutched around the bag over his shoulder, the tired rings around his soft blue eyes.

They finally meet and Jon feels like he’s going to explode from joy, his body filling up with happiness until he’s bursting at the seams. Jon throws his arms around Tom, closing around him and holding him tight. Tom smells like wind and steam and burning coal and he wraps his arms around Jon’s back, fingers digging into the fabric of Jon’s shirt.

They’re out in public and too close to the farm, to where Brendon and Ryan are undoubtedly watching them. They’re too exposed to kiss. Jon hooks his chin over Tom’s shoulder instead.

“Jonny, Jonny, you smell so good,” Tom’s thick rough voice whispers.

“Liar, I’ve been out sweating on the farm all day.”

Tom noses along Jon’s temple, breathing him in.

“I’ve missed it. All of it. You the most ‘course.”

All the doubts Jon had, all of them fly out the window the second Tom’s back with him. Tom’s hands smooth down his back and Jon wants to be in their home, in their bedroom, on his back on the bed with Tom’s hands re-learning every inch of his body.

“God, you too, Tommy, I’ve... it’s been too long.”

“We’ve been hugging too long, Jonny. What will your farmhand think?” Tom whispers, but he sounds amused, teasing. Tom’s always been the more sensible one when it came to them and the outside world. Jon tends to lose his smarts when it comes to Tom.

“I don’t much care right now,” Jon breathes. God, just one kiss. They can’t even kiss back at the house unless Jon makes sure Brendon and Ryan stay outside and even then it can’t be for long.

“Don’t want the town talkin’,” Tom whispers to him, it’s slow and easy and Jon already feels that same sense of warmth and peace in being back around him. Jon reluctantly pulls back from Tom. He can’t even take Tom’s hand and hold it on the walk back to the farm.

“Let me carry your bag,” Jon says. Tom gives him a sideways look and snorts.

“You’ve been running the device today; your back is killing you.”

“I can handle it,” Jon argues.

“So can I,” Tom says, he puffs out his chest a bit and thumps his fist against it. Jon laughs, he feels so giddy, light hearted like there isn’t a thing in the world that can bring him down. It’s always been this easy around Tom; it comes along with years of friendship, of being in love.

“How was the train?” Jon asks. He’s fidgeting with anticipation, but he can still reign it all in and act normal. Tom shrugs but he’s smiling small and with adoration etched on his face.

“Same as always; a bunch of drunken, sweaty, annoyed men aching to get away from one another,” Tom laughs. “How’s the farm?” his deep blue eyes are focused on their field, on their shared home and Jon waits until he notices two figures working there instead of just one.

“Good. The animals are fine, Brendon’s real good with the chickens and Dylan and Clover. The hay’s ‘bout ready to be bundled up and the vegetables are due to be sold soon. I was waiting for the harvest to sell them.”

“Brendon is the farmhand right?” Tom says, his eyes catching on the figures in the field. Jon nods, Tom stops a bit. “And which one is he?”

“The um…he’s the black haired one. The one in the plant field.”

Tom turns his gaze to Jon, an eyebrow raised. “And who’s the other one? The one in the hay?”

“That would be Ryan.” Jon’s stomach tightens. He had been hoping to do this inside the house and away from where Ryan or Brendon could hear. He doesn’t want either boy to feel uncomfortable staying at the house now that Tom is home.

“You didn’t tell me about a Ryan.”

Jon swallows down the lump that’s building in his throat. “I didn’t have much time.” It’s not a big lie; it’s nothing Jon should feel bad about. “You were already almost home by the time I found him.”

Tom tilts his head in confusion. “He lives here too?” Jon nods and ducks his head; he looks up at Tom through his eyelashes. Tom’s face is blank and then a small smile ghosts over his mouth for a few seconds. Tom’s hand comes out and squeezes at Jon’s for a moment. “And here I was thinking your collection of strays was limited to cats.”

Jon laughs a little and Tom’s hand falls away, they continue walking. “So you’re not mad?” Jon asks.

“Nope. Well, wait a minute, do we pay them?”

“Brendon works for rent and food as does Ryan.”

“Well then, no problem at all. They don’t know about us, right?” Tom adds almost as an afterthought, like he isn’t always thinking about it somewhere in the back of his mind, that he and Jon can’t be open and free.

“‘Course not.”

Tom grins crookedly and leans over to rest his palm at the back of Jon’s head, fingers ruffling through Jon’s slight curls. “They’ll know if you keep touching me,” Jon mutters.

“Tell me to stop then,” Tom says, his voice just a little wicked, an underlying thread of lust heating in his eyes. Jon can’t. He misses the touches too much to ask Tom to stop. Tom does let his hand fall away, leaving heated trails behind, making Jon’s skin come alive with gooseflesh.

The two of them get to the farm and Brendon is already hopping out of the field, wiping his dirty hands on his slacks and offering Tom up his hand as he skids to a stop in front of them.

“Hi! Hi, I’m Brendon and you must be Tom. It’s nice to meet you! You’ve got a lovely home and Jon’s told me so much about you and, well, not that much. You know, what’s appropriate to tell and-“

“Brendon, you’re rambling,” Ryan says from beside him. Brendon laughs and Tom smiles at Brendon and shakes his hand.

“Nice to meet you,” Tom says, he’s nothing if polite. Ryan wipes his own hands off on his pants before he offers one to Tom.

“I’m Ryan Ross, nice to meet you, sir.”

Tom’s eyes flick to Jon who tears his own gaze from Ryan to meet Tom’s look.

“You don’t have to call me sir. Sir makes me feel old.”

“Alright, Tom,” Ryan nods and he smiles at Jon and Tom. The knot in Jon’s stomach loosens considerably. The world didn’t stop turning just because Tom and Ryan met, no one knows of the guilty thoughts Jon was harboring in his head and now that Tom’s back, those thoughts will cease to exist all together.

“Well, I’m sure Tom here is starving or at least wants to put his bags away. You two mind finishing up out here?” Jon asks Ryan and Brendon. Brendon grins and shakes his head, Ryan is quiet, surveying but he too shakes his head.

“Not a problem,” Brendon chirps as he goes back to the field. Ryan lingers for just a moment longer before he too is heading back into the waist high stalks of hay. Tom turns and heads up the porch; he grazes a hand across the carved wood of his rocking chair, with Jon close behind him.

Jon closes both of the doors; the screen and the main heavy wooden door. His back is against the wood of the door when he hears the loud thump of Tom’s bag hitting the floor and then he feels a body pressed up against his, work rough, dirty hands taking his own, holding on tight.

Tom presses Jon hard against the door and Jon tips his head up, willingly offering himself up for Tom. They can’t do much, not with Brendon and Ryan just outside, they don’t have that kind of time and Jon doesn’t want to rush that. Tom’s licks over his chapped lips and in seconds his mouth is connected with Jon’s in a harsh unforgiving kiss.

Tom’s hand is wrapped tight around Jon’s wrist, pinning his arm to the wood of the door. Tom’s other hand is splayed across Jon’s jaw, tipping his mouth so he can kiss harder, get deeper. Jon’s drowning in all the sensations, the rough press of Tom’s mouth, the slick wet of his tongue and the hard click of their teeth when Tom leans in again and again. Tom tastes the same, smoky, strong.

Jon presses forward; strains against Tom’s grip. He sinks his fingers into Tom’s dirty blonde hair, tugs a little. Tom moans and Jon’s hips roll forward automatically. He could do this forever, regardless of what society says or thinks or if Brendon and Ryan find out.

Tom grinds forward, his hips working against Jon’s. Jon is half hard already and when Tom shifts just right their clothed cocks rub together. Jon shudders. He wants Tom to take him right here; to push him down on the floor and fuck him until he’s sore, until he can’t take a step without remembering how hard Tom had him, how badly he had wanted it.

Tom catches Jon’s mouth again and again, only breaking to take in small gasps of air before their mouths are slanting hard and wet, sloppy. Jon pops the large metal buttons on Tom’s peacoat, he slides the heavy fabric off Tom’s broad shoulders until the coat falls and the fabric pools around his feet. Tom’s mouth trails down Jon’s neck and he nips, bites at his collarbones and his throat.

“You can’t... marks...” Jon pants, Tom pulls back, his normally light eyes are dark with want and Jon knows his own are the same.

“Fuck, I want you naked right now,” Tom whispers hotly against Jon’s cheek. Tom noses along Jon’s neck.

“The farmhands-“ Jon feels dizzy, feels like he wants Tom to strip him down.

“Tonight then? I don’t think I can make it,” Tom chuckles darkly, he kisses Jon again.

“I... I told them we don’t share a room,” Jon admits quickly. His cock is still begging for attention, half hard in his slacks. Tom pulls back a bit, cups Jon’s cheek.

“They both sleep upstairs right? We’ll tell ‘em I sleep on the couch and then after they go to bed I’ll sneak into our room.

“Ryan sleeps on the couch,” Jon mutters.

Tom throws him a look. “Are you trying to tell me that I can’t sleep in my own damn room tonight?”

“No, no, I just... we have to be careful-“

“I know that,” Tom says, his voice tight, “But I also know that I’ve missed you and I want to lie with you tonight like we always do. Tell this Ryan to sleep upstairs with Brendon, he’ll listen won’t he?”

Jon nods but he can’t help feeling like he’s betraying Ryan but at the same time this is his and Tom’s house and he wants to be with Tom just as much as Tom wants to be with him. Sleeping upstairs won’t hurt Ryan and Jon can finally have Tom in all the ways he’s longed for, for so long.

***

That night Jon cooks dinner, he gives Brendon the night off on the duty because he wants to cook for Tom on his first night home. Tom is standing at the counter, wringing a cloth out over the sink. Tom has hung his coat up in the closet in their bedroom and his shirt is hanging off the back of one of the chairs. He’s washing himself down, removing the built up grime and dirt from being on the open road. Jon tries not to watch as Tom scrubs over his muscled stomach and down thick forearms.

Jon stirs the bits of meat around the skillet and shivers with anticipation. He knows Tom’s cleaning up for him, for tonight when they lie together and Tom fucks him, finally, fucks him.

Tom finishes washing up his top half; Jon thinks he might wait until later tonight to do the rest. Tom dips the cloth back into the bucket of room temperature water and scrubs it through his blonde hair, wetting it and slicking it back. When he’s through, he dumps the water and taps Jon on the shoulder.

“I have a gift for you,” Tom says, “I nearly forgot.”

“You didn’t have to do that, Tom,” Jon answers automatically though inside he is swooning. Jon moves the cooked meat from the pan to a plate and turns to see Tom going to his heavy bag. Tom opens it and digs inside, straightens up and what he’s holding makes Jon’s eyes widen.

It’s a camera; rectangular, boxy, not too large but a fair size. Tom is beaming brightly. He and Tom had heard about cameras on the radio and saw them in catalogues at Beckett’s place and occasionally the two of them discussed how nice it would be to own one, how they could take pictures of each other or the farm or the places Tom visits so that Jon could see them too. But Jon always considered owning one a pipe dream, the camera’s are far too expensive.

“How’d you-?” Jon really is at a loss for words here. He’d like to take it and test it out; he’d like to kiss Tom for actually finding the damn thing. Tom hefts the camera up and tucks it under his arm, he shrugs.

“I used some of my pay.”

This takes Jon by surprise. Tom gets a good amount of pay for running the rails and that’s typically what Jon and Tom use to survive on during the winter, when the snow blankets the field and the crops die.

“How much was it?” Jon asks. Tom offers the camera up to Jon.

“Don’t worry about it,” Tom assures him. “’Course sooner or later we’ll have to buy a developing machine so we can actually see our pictures.” Tom is silent for a moment. “Do you like it?” he asks, a wide smile gracing his handsome face. Jon looks down at the heavy device in his hands and returns the smile.

“I love it.” Jon speaks soft and gentle; he hopes Tom catches the meaning; the camera isn’t the only thing he loves with all his heart. Tom is satisfied with the answer, he urges Jon to lift the camera, to use it. Jon raises the camera to his eye and aims at Tom. He presses the plastic-y button on top and there’s a bright blinding flash, Tom blinking dazedly.

Jon tucks the camera away in their bedroom with care and then they sit down for dinner.

Brendon is curious about Tom; he asks Tom a lot of questions about the life of a rail runner. Tom doesn’t talk a lot normally. He’s quiet save for around those he really knows, but he still answers all of Brendon’s questions and asks a few of his own.

Ryan doesn’t say much during dinner. Jon hadn’t realized until now how Ryan and Tom were the same type of quiet; the type that was closed up and only really bloomed until they trusted the people around them, like flowers that would blossom only when they were sure the people caring for them wouldn’t cut them at the root.

“So, Ryan,” Tom begins after he’s quenched Brendon’s thirst for knowledge. Ryan looks up at Tom through the curls that have slipped into his eyes. Jon chews quietly and waits. “Jon didn’t get a chance to tell me how you two met. How you came to live on the farm.”

“Well, Jon met me in the city, bought a painting from me and then found me two days later and told me I could come home with him. That’s it in a nutshell,” Ryan laughs; he looks down at his plate of food while Tom looks to Jon.

“You went to the city?” Tom asks Jon, his voice light and surprised. Jon nods.

“With Brendon and Spencer.”

“Spencer?” Tom’s brows furrow together.

“You haven’t met him yet. He comes by to visit a lot,” Brendon supplies.

“He’s farmer Smith’s son, you know,” Jon adds.

“You’re from the town right, Brendon?” Tom asks. Brendon nods and Tom turns to Ryan. “And you’re from the city?”

“I was born in Virginia, left there when I was about sixteen, been traveling since then.”

“You work?” Tom points his fork in Ryan’s direction. Jon worries a bit about the inquisition that Tom is conducting on Ryan. He thinks back to the night Ryan told him why he really left Virginia, about his troubles with his dad. Ryan doesn’t look phased by Tom’s questions though and he answers each one calmly, friendly though the two of them never broach the topic of Ryan’s father.

Tom and Ryan strike up a conversation over dinner about art, about the places Ryan’s drawn inspiration from. Turns out the two of them have been to a few of the same places, walked through the same cities, taken the same train lines. Jon’s stomach settles when he’s sure that Tom doesn’t hate Ryan and won’t mind him staying at the house.

“Oh, Ryan,” Tom says later when Brendon and Jon are cleaning up the dinner. Ryan raises an eyebrow and looks to Tom. “Jon forgot to mention it but I’ll be sleeping in the bedroom tonight and Jon will need the couch. You don’t mind sleeping upstairs with Brendon, do you?”

“Oh,” Ryan starts and stops, he shakes his head but Jon thinks he catches just a hint of disappointment or maybe concern that he has to share a confined space with Brendon. “It’s no problem. It’s your home after all.” Jon internally cringes at that. It is Jon and Tom’s home but Jon wanted it to feel like it could be a home for all of them. He realizes with a start that he wants to make his home a place Ryan wants to be.

***

Not long after dinner Brendon retires upstairs to fix up a place for Ryan; the handmade cots are still set up from when Spencer had spent the night with Brendon. Ryan collects his bag and sketchbook, his blank canvas and his hat, and shoes. Jon feels a little bad and he offers to carry Ryan’s canvas and bag upstairs for him. Ryan glances at Tom and then Jon and he shakes his head, lugs his effects up the stairs on his own.

“I’m fine, Jon, really. Goodnight,” he smiles at Jon. “And it was nice to meet you, Tom,” Ryan calls to Tom as he ascends the stairs. Tom throws him a friendly wave. Jon watches the line of Ryan’s back as he retreats upstairs and he waits until he doesn’t hear any movement before he slowly turns to face Tom, the two of them finally alone.

Tom smiles and raises his arm, beckons Jon closer. Jon goes to his lover, goes more than willingly. Tom catches Jon by the wrist and tugs him over, their bodies suddenly pressed tight together. Tom’s hands sink into Jon’s hair, rough pads of Tom’s fingers catching at the slight tangles.

“I love your hair like this,” Tom whispers, he doesn’t wait for Jon to reply he just leans in and slips his tongue into Jon’s mouth. Tom‘s hands cup the back of Jon’s skull, thread in his hair while he sucks at Jon’s tongue. Jon moans desperate, the noise muffled by Tom’s mouth.

Jon loves the way Tom kisses after he’s been gone; rough, exploring sweeps of his tongue. He kisses Jon like tonight will be their last time and they’ll never get another chance. Jon walks them to the bedroom, his hands on Tom’s firm sides, sliding up and down the thin fabric of his undershirt.

They break apart so Jon can push the door closed just in case Brendon or Ryan sneaks downstairs; they’ll think of something else to explain away why Jon wasn’t on the couch later. Right now Jon could care less about anything other than whether or not Tom’s skin tastes the same.

Tom bites at Jon’s lower lip when Jon returns to him.

“We’re going to fuck right?” Tom whispers against Jon’s mouth. “Fuck, Jonny, I’ve missed you so much. You don’t know how many nights I’ve laid awake thinking about you, about being with you again. The way you feel around me. I want you so bad.”

Jon bites back a moan at the words; he whimpers instead and tugs off his own undershirt. He can’t wait for the torturously slow way he knows Tom would strip him. Tom follows suit and gets his own undershirt off, their clothes littering the floor. Jon scraps his fingers up Tom’s broad chest, tracing patterns and lines, writing his ‘I love you’s’ against Tom’s flesh. Tom shivers and his hands go to Jon’s belt, undoing the buckle with expertise.

Tom pets at Jon’s lower back, smoothes off the fabric down his thighs until his slacks are around his ankles and Jon has to step out of them. Tom is staring, drinking him in and Jon’s not self conscious about it, he doesn’t care about any imperfections that exist because he knows Tom sees only the beautiful things about him, he knows because he sees the same with Tom.

Jon undoes Tom’s belt. He gets Tom out of his pants. Tom gets Jon down on their bed, he seems to be fighting internally about whether or not he wants to take his time, let his hands memorize Jon’s skin, taste each inch and then fuck Jon slow, and steady once Jon’s worked up or whether he wants to open Jon up quick, with his fingers and his mouth and fuck Jon hard into the worn mattress.

Jon shivers when Tom allows himself a moment to let rough palms trace all along his body, down his chest, across his thighs, the length of his arms and legs. Tom settles down on top of Jon, kisses him once wet and quick and then practically growls into his ear.

“Hands and knees, Jonny.”

Jon scrambles up into position, his skin is flushed and he’s already sweating from the combined heat of their bodies and the season. His knee slips against the freshly laundered sheets but Jon plants himself on his hands and knees, a familiar position, ass pushed back for Tom. Now Tom’s running his palms down Jon’s back, cupping his ass cheeks and brushing a thick rough finger in between rubbing dryly over Jon’s hole. Jon gasps; it’s just a tease, a taste of what’s to come, of what Tom’s going to give him.

“You’re fucking gorgeous,” Tom mutters and he presses a scratchy kiss to the base of Jon’s spine, nips at the tanned skin. Jon looks at Tom from over his shoulder and sees Tom with two of his fingers in his mouth, sucking the digits in and wetting them. Jon’s full, hard dick jerks at the sight, his body anticipating what’s coming next.

It’s been so long that undoubtedly Jon will need three fingers tonight but Tom will start with two like he always does. There’s a wet pop and then Jon drops his head between his shoulders when he feels the cool damp press of a wet digit against his hole. Tom’s just circling his entrance, rubbing again and again, Jon groans, presses his face into the mattress and offers his ass up higher, pressing back.

Tom dips inside and Jon’s body is already beginning to tremble with want. He has all this pent up energy, this burning need, a want and he’s just so fucking happy that in these moments he’s not thinking of anyone but Tom. It’s been so long for the two of them that Jon doesn’t want to wait for Tom to give him each finger slow, he wants them fast; he wants Tom pulling him open and getting him ready to take Tom’s dick. But Tom thankfully has retained his composure. Tom gives him the first finger slowly, pressing inside. Jon knows he must be tight; his dick throbs with the thought that Tom must be equally as tight.

Jon spreads his legs wider and tries to keep himself relaxed. Tom’s finger is curling, searching blindly for Jon’s prostate, a move Tom doesn’t usually go for until the second finger. Tom pulls out and then Jon hears the wet suckling noise once again, he doesn’t even have to look to know that Tom is sucking on his fingers re-wetting them.

The next time Tom’s fingers return there are two of them, spit slick, pressing inside. Jon groans; he’s not used to reigning in his noises when they’re in bed. They can’t have Ryan and Brendon hearing. The two fingers already feel like a lot, Jon wishes he had had the sense to stretch himself open these last few days so it might be easier on them both now. His dick is so hard it’s almost painful and all he wants is Tom inside, filling him like only he can.

Tom is going faster now and Jon lets him despite the stretch. Tom’s fingers press inside as far as they can, curling, twisting, and pushing, searching until Jon feels that white hot shock of pleasure and stars burst behind his eyes. Jon has to bury his face into the mattress to muffle the moan that rips through him. Tom swears from behind him, brings his free hand to pet at Jon’s back.

“So good Jon, you’re so tight, fuck.”

“Tom, Tommy, come on. Hurry, I-I need-“

“Shit, I know, I know.”

Then Jon feels a third finger joining the first two. Jon fights the urge to touch himself when Tom finds his prostate again, stroking the spot to ease the burn of three fingers scissoring, stretching his ring of muscle. Tom peppers his back and the swell of his ass in damp kisses as he fucks Jon with his fingers.

Jon can already feel his cock leaking, at this rate he won’t last long at all. “I’m good,” he chokes out, “I’m ready, Tom.”

Tom doesn’t pull away, he works his fingers in and out a few more times, being careful to avoid Jon’s prostate. Jon’s about to whine about being ready; he’s seconds from begging for it, but then the fingers are gone and Jon feels empty, clenching around nothing. Tom gets up from the bed and goes to the dresser. There’s a bottle of scented oil that’s tucked between Jon’s shaving kit and Tom’s cologne. Tom takes the bottle and unscrews the glass cap.

Tom is hard, the head of his dick flushed red and leaking and Jon’s mouth waters at the sight. Tom drizzles some of the thick, flowery scented oil across his fingers. He curls his slicked hand around his dick and he groans deep in his throat as he strokes himself, coating his cock.

Jon digs his fingers into the sheets of the bed and makes frustrated noises. “Come on, come on.”

Tom squeezes at his cock once before he crawls across the bed and pushes Jon’s legs even further apart. The wet head of his dick is pressed against Jon’s hole and Jon shivers, fingers biting into the sheets in anticipation for that first press of Tom’s cock working its way inside of him.

“Tell me, “Tom begins, “Tell me if it’s too much, if you need more slick.”

“Alright, I’m fine just...”

And then Jon feels his body give and the head of Tom’s cock slides inside of him. Tom’s fingers dig into Jon’s fleshy hips, tugging him back and he sinks a few inches deeper.

“Oh god, Jon, you’re still so tight. Always so tight. Fuck.”

Tom’s legs brush against Jon’s, his hands pet at Jon’s hips. Tom sinks in the rest of the way, settling for a moment with his length fully inside of Jon, letting him adjust to the feeling. Jon pants, he loves this, that feeling of being so full. He and Tom connected so intimately.

Tom’s hands brush down Jon’s hips; travel the expanse of his thighs, firm fingers scratching against the soft skin of Jon’s stomach. Tom is teasing him, trailing touches all along his body but ignoring his aching cock. “Tom,” Jon breathes; he pushes back against Tom’s dick, grinds backwards in a slow circle. Tom grunts and he finally, finally lets his fingers touch at Jon’s cock. Jon’s hips buck forward and Tom moves with him thrusting. The two of them moan, Jon burring his face into the mattress and Tom muffling his noises along the naked expanse of Jon’s back.

Tom strokes Jon a little, his cock jerking under Tom’s touch. He squeezes at Jon’s dick, he digs his nails into Jon’s hip and then he’s pulling out, his cock dragging slowly on its way out of Jon. It seems Tom is done with being slow, with being careful. They both know that Jon can take it in the same way they both know that Tom knows when enough is enough. It’s been too long to bother with slow, gentle sex, love making; they both need it rough and fast and now.

There is a burn as they fuck but it’s not much different than the tight hot pain that worms through him when he works the watering device for too long. Tom slams back into Jon, his hips slapping loud and slick against Jon’s ass. Jon pushes back into Tom’s thrusts; he lets his fingers tangle in the sheets.

They’re quiet for the most part, muffled grunts and bitten off moans. Tom drives into Jon again and again, filling him quick and hard and filthy. Tom’s fingers play at the curls at the nape of Jon’s neck, pulling his head back slightly. Tom’s thrusts are hard and they make Jon’s body lurch, slide across the sheets slightly with each one. Jon ducks his head and bites his lip; he works his own hand between his thighs, stroking at himself. He jerks himself off fast and rough, fingers slick with precome.

Tom is curled all along Jon’s back his hips are jerking as he fucks Jon into the spongy mattress. He grinds into Jon in these harsh circles, a move that pushes the blunt head of his dick against Jon’s prostate on each cycle, each push. Jon’s face is pressed into the sheets, head turned and mouth open on a silent cry. His whole body is shaking, trembling as Tom takes him.

“Spent so many nights thinking about this, right here,” Tom whispers into Jon’s ear, his body curled over Jon’s. “So many times I was in my bunk; hard, thinking about your hands or your mouth or how you’d hitch my legs up over your shoulders and fuck me so good; or how maybe you’d just curve forward and ride me.”

“God, Tom, me too, been waiting so long for this.”

“Maybe now we’ll have to go back to what we did when we were kids; fucking in the barn, out in the hay field, hidden away in the woods by the creek. I’d drop to my knees and just fucking blow you out there.” Tom’s mouth is filthy, voice rough with sex and each word is punctuated by a hard thrust from Tom, one that brushes Jon’s prostate and has him crying out.

They might not have their safe haven inside the house anymore but they have a whole expanse of land, hidden places in the dark where they can sneak away and fuck. Jon loves Tom’s brain. Tom’s still whispering dirty little promises of things they’ll do, of all the things he wants. Every suggestion sends sparks down Jon’s spine, through his cock and Jon jerks himself again, squeezing and thumbing the leaking head of his dick.

He can’t last much longer, he just can’t; not with Tom’s mouth pressed hot against his ear and Tom’s fucking him so hard and fast, not with how long it’s been since they’ve done this. Jon clenches around Tom’s cock, it makes Tom’s cock drag when Tom pulls out and makes Jon tighter when he pushes back in, bottoming out.

“Jon, Jonny, come on,” Tom pants. Jon’s on the edge, his skin is hot and tight like the burning pleasure just might kill him. Tom shifts and wraps his arms around Jon’s middle, tugging him back and up and then they’re both upright with Tom kneeling and Jon’s back pressed firm and damp against Tom’s chest.

Tom’s hips are working in a frenzy of rough thrusts. Jon’s vision blurs, whites out to everything that isn’t the feeling of Tom filling him and surrounding him. One of Tom’s arms is looped around Jon’s chest; holding him steady and back and the other is gripping Jon’s hip, tight enough to leave bruises. Jon is on the edge so close to toppling over and crashing through his orgasm. He doesn’t need much more. Tom is kissing the skin of his shoulder, the back of his neck; his teeth are scrapping lightly and that combined with Jon’s own hand curled around his dick, squeezing and jerking, it’s enough to send him over the edge.

Jon comes hard, harder than he thinks he ever has before. His vision blacks and he comes over his own hand and stomach. Tom fucks him through it, brutal thrusts that set little sparks of pleasure and pain shooting through Jon’s stomach. Tom grunts and he bites into the soft skin between Jon’s neck and shoulder to muffle his moan as his hips twitch and he comes inside of Jon.

They stay connected like that, Tom buried inside of Jon and Jon can feel him growing soft. Tom lowers Jon to the bed; Jon goes easily. He feels boneless and sated, his body humming pleasantly. Tom is laid out on top of him, still inside of him and he pulls back, eases out of Jon.

Jon whimpers at the loss but he shivers at the feeling of Tom’s come leaking out of him, running down the backs of his thighs. Tom flops down next to Jon and presses a kiss to Jon’s temple. Jon rolls over and presses closer. He’s sore but it’s good, he welcomes it. Tom smiles at him, his mouth is all red and kiss swollen and Jon’s sure his own mouth is mirroring the look.

Jon’s eyes fall closed he’s comfortable and warm and Tom’s hand is stroking down his back.

“I should go to the couch,” Tom slurs, he sounds tired too. Jon frowns.

“We told them I’d sleep on the couch.”

“I know. But I just fucked your brains out; I don’t think you’re up to moving anywhere.”

“No. Don’t go. I don’t care if they find out.”

Tom laughs. “You say that now.”

“Just don’t go. I’ve dreamed of this moment for so long now. Stay,” Jon tells Tom, his eyes still closed but his hand wrapped around Tom’s wrist. He feels Tom shift and move until he’s lying against Jon. Tom pulls Jon closer, heated skin against heated skin.

“I’ll be here. Now go to sleep, Jonny.”

***

Jon wakes up the next morning with Tom practically on top of him. He shifts under Tom and manages to turn on his side, sliding out from under Tom’s arms and chest. Tom is still fast asleep, laid out and peaceful, lashes fanning against pale cheeks. Jon leans over and nuzzles his face against Tom’s; he noses along the skin of his cheek and presses a kiss to his mouth. Tom stirs, his blue eyes flutter open. Tom smiles sleepily and stretches. Jon leans over and claims another kiss from him relishing the taste, the feel and the smell of their sleepy mornings together.

Tom wakes up and the two of them partake in a lazy session of slow hazy kisses. Their room is quiet save for the slight wet noise of their mouths slanting together and the scratch of their bodies sliding. Eventually they have to stop ‘before things get out of hand’ as Tom says and the two of them dress and head out into the kitchen. There are three plates sitting on the table and Tom marvels at the food waiting for them.

“Brendon,” Jon explains. Tom plops down in a chair and tucks into his meal.

“I like Brendon.”

Jon takes the seat next to Tom. Everything feels brighter; the work that is laid out ahead of them doesn’t seem as daunting. Jon’s life seems somehow so much more tolerable when Tom is there beside him.

“And what do you think of Ryan?” Jon asks between bites of his breakfast. He wants Tom to like Ryan, to enjoy having him around. Jon doesn’t have the heart to face the only other option, to make Ryan leave a steady home he’s only just found. Tom shrugs like he’s considering the boy; he chews his bite of breakfast before he answers.

“He’s an alright kid.”

“You don’t mind the two of them being here, right? They really don’t have anywhere else to go.”

Tom rests his hand over Jon’s, his thumb rubbing circles against the back of Jon’s hand.

“Don’t worry about me making them leave,” Tom says, his hand curling over Jon’s. “I wouldn’t do that to you.”

“You’re not supposed to do it for me,” Jon laughs, “It’s supposed to be for them.”

“They’re still here aren’t they?” Tom chuckles. He leans in close like he’s about to kiss Jon but seconds before their lips meet the sound of footsteps echoing off the staircase bounces around the kitchen and their natural instincts kick in. Tom pulls away from Jon like is made of fire and he’s about to be burned.

Ryan rounds the corner and then he’s ducking into the kitchen, swallowing nervously under Jon and Tom’s shared gaze. Jon smiles and Tom follows suit. Ryan plops down at the table sleepy eyed and hair sticking up. Jon bites back a laugh at how innocent Ryan looks right now, how small and sweet he appears when he’s still trying to release himself from the grasps of sleep.

“Did you sleep well upstairs, Ryan?” Tom asks. Ryan blinks and nods weakly.

“Brendon likes to sew by candlelight but its fine. I didn’t mind.”

The three of them eat in near silence except for discussing how they’ll section off the work now that Tom’s back. For the most part nothing will change. Brendon will continue to work with the animals except for how Tom will be more than happy to take Clover out for her exercise. Tom will also be doing more work in the field; he and Jon typically switch between running the watering device.

“Harvest is coming soon,” Tom says in between bites. “We’ll have to bail up that hay for sellin’”

“It ain’t all ready yet. Only ‘bout half,” Jon answers, “We’ll have to do it next week.”

Jon gets up to take their plates and as he walks he notes that he’s limping just a bit, his body sore from the way Tom had taken him last night. Tom doesn’t miss it either; his eyes darken drastically when he sees the slight falter to Jon’s steps. Jon sees Tom lick over his lips quickly before he coughs and speaks to Ryan and Jon.

“I’m gonna…I’m going to do the watering today, Jon. You’ve done it so much while I’ve been gone. Why don’t you just go mess around with the camera, get familiar with it.”

“You sure Tom? I’d feel bad lazing about while you’re working.”

Tom stands and takes the plate from Jon, setting them in the sink, he smiles at Jon and Jon is all too aware of the heavy weight of Ryan’s gaze locked on the two of them. Tom moves away from Jon making it a note to not touch him again, not if he doesn’t have to.

Jon doesn’t do much with the camera. He’s still tentative to really use it, scared his clumsy hands will drop the fragile device that Tom spent half his paycheck on. He mostly just stands out in the front yard and takes photos of the house, the porch, the outline of Tom’s tanned body holding the watering device. Tom works in the field with his shirt off most of the time, he’s not concerned about other people being around or what’s right by social standards, hell, if he were he wouldn’t be with Jon in the first place.

Jon snaps a few photos of Ryan who’s standing in the golden field of hay and of Brendon when he’s perched atop Dylan or chasing around a chicken.

Sometime before dusk a familiar figure comes up the path to their house. Jon already recognizes the smart suit, the shiny black dress shoes. It’s Spencer. Jon watches Brendon who’s still riding Dylan around in slow circles along the outer edges of the farm. Brendon doesn’t notice Spencer at first, not until Spencer is standing at the top of the driveway, smiling. Once Brendon spots Spencer, that’s when Jon lifts the camera and freezes the moment, Brendon’s huge thrilled grin and Spencer’s smaller but no less bright smile in return.

Spencer is polite to Tom, they talk about the business of the railroads, a topic Tom can discuss without ever fearing he’ll be one upped by someone else’s smarts. Spencer admires the camera and tells Jon he can get them the photos developed at a significant discount.

The day passes by easily and come night fall Ryan once again sleeps upstairs with Brendon on the cots while Tom feigns that he’s sleeping on the couch when really he sneaks into the bedroom, and sleeps curled up next to Jon. They leave the windows in their room open letting all the cool summer air into the house.

Jon’s never slept more comfortably than now.

***

The rest of the week passes by with a steady tranquility of everyday life. Brendon still makes breakfast every morning and never once mentions the fact that when he’s cooking there’s no one occupying the couch. Jon and Tom take turns watering the fields; Ryan picks the ripened fruit and checks the hay.

Spencer still stops by for dinner and there are nights where they break out a bottle of whiskey; drinking and laughing and talking into the wee hours of the night. Those nights Jon and Tom take the opportunity to fuck, quiet and hot, limbs and mouths loose with the alcohol, safe because the others have long since passed out.

Lately Jon has immersed himself in his camera. Tom uses it too sometimes, takes a picture of the woods from the window in their room. In bed he talks about how he’d like to take Jon’s picture. How he wants the camera to catch how Jon looks after they’ve fucked. Tom describes how beautiful he thinks Jon looks; ‘Your swollen mouth, god, Jonny. The way your eyes look, how the sheet hangs so low on your hips.’ But Tom would never dare take that photo. There’d be too many questions when they took the camera in to get the photos developed; besides that Tom doesn’t want anyone to see Jon in that way, no one but him.

Today it’s Tom’s turn in the field, watering the plants. Jon and Ryan had stuck the fresh fruit down in the root cellar, boxed it all up for when they eventually take it to sell to William. Once Jon has finished all his work he goes to his camera; the same familiar activity he’s been filling his pastimes with. Today though Jon decides he wants to travel through the thicket of lush green woods and go take photos at the clear cool creek that runs past the trees.

Ryan comes up to Jon just as Jon picks up his camera. “What are you going to take pictures of today?” he asks.

“Thinking of headin’ down to the creek back beyond the woods.” Jon points in the direction, the woods thick enough that the stream is undetectable from a distance. Ryan wipes at his forehead with his faded red handkerchief and grins nervously.

“You mind if I come along? Nature scenes are kinda my specialty.”

“Sure yeah, it’s no problem.” Jon’s stomach sort of twists up at the thought of being alone with Ryan in a secluded area, his mind flashes back to the prior time they were alone and how heated Ryan’s skin felt under Jon’s hands. Ryan smiles, tucks away his handkerchief and goes inside, presumably to grab his sketchbook or maybe his canvas.

Jon stops by the field to tell Tom that he and Ryan are going to the creek. Jon wants to lean in and press a kiss to Tom’s mouth but they’re outside and Brendon is milling around between the chicken coop and the horse barn. Tom says he doesn’t mind; he tells Jon that he likes that Jon is enjoying his gift so much.

Ryan comes back outside with his cloth bag draped over his shoulder. The two of them walk in step chatting about nothing of particular importance.

“Have you ever used a camera?” Jon asks. It’s something that’s really caught his interests, the way he can almost see the world in a different way now, all shadows and lights, shapes and movement. Ryan shakes his head.

“I haven’t. My art is strictly charcoal and brushes.”

“You haven’t been painting much since you got here. You having trouble finding any inspiration?”

“Nah that’s not the case. There are beautiful things here, things I’ve never quite seen before and I’m so damn glad I didn’t miss them.”

“Really? Like what?”

Ryan doesn’t say anything; he just looks at Jon with deep sparkling eyes and he smiles small and soft.

“Just things.”

Jon remembers the pages of the sketchbook that are filled with drawings of hands and broad backs; the large scale drawing of Jon sleeping. A chill runs down his spine and heat flares in his chest. He ignores the thought, he doesn’t want to let himself hope that he’s the thing keeping Ryan here in the town.

The two of them cut through the thick smattering of oaks and pines, cool dark earth that blocks out the sweltering heat of the day. On the other side of the woods there’s a clearing and there’s the clear water of the stream, the banks of greenery. Jon sets his camera on the ground before he takes his shoes and socks off, he rolls his slacks up to his knees before he picks it back up.

Jon walks into the shallow mouth of the stream, icy cold water washing over his feet and ankles. Jon focuses the camera and takes a picture of his feet engulfed in crystal clear water. He looks over at Ryan and Ryan is sitting on the bank, digging through his cloth bag, the blank canvas settled next to him.

Jon watches Ryan for a few moments. The curve of his long body sprawled out across the ground and the soft concentration on his face. Ryan really is beautiful, breathtakingly so. Jon raises his camera before his mind even realizes and then Ryan is looking up at the sharp snap of the camera. Jon smiles from behind the shield of the camera and he watches Ryan through the tiny square of lens.

Ryan smiles, “What are you doing?”

“Has anyone ever told you that you’d make a good model?” Jon asks. He snaps another photo, this time Ryan is smiling small and curious, lopsided. He’s leaning back with his hands planted in the grass and his legs stretched out in front of him, his face tipped up.

“Nope. I’m usually on the other side of the artistic vision. I guess I’m not used to someone looking at me and seeing something they want to capture.”

Jon wades out of the stream and back on to the bank. He’s towering over Ryan who’s still looking up at him with big brown eyes and curly bangs. Jon’s mind flicks over to the possibility of heated touches and the opportunity of Ryan curled down on his knees. Jon has to clear his head of the thoughts before he can look at Ryan again.

“Do you mind if I take pictures of you?” Jon asks. Ryan turns his head and Jon snaps another, shadows slipping over Ryan’s face and his hair covering his eyes, fingers tangled in the long grass. Ryan visibly swallows but he shakes his head.

“Is there…is there a certain way you want me?” Ryan asks uncertainly. Jon bites his lip. He knows Ryan means it strictly in a photography manner but Jon’s mind entertains the idea; the double meaning. The image of Ryan stretched out on the ground, writhing and arching with Jon hovering above him sneaks into Jon’s mind before he can stop it; Jon shivers and his skin erupts into gooseflesh.

“Like that, just maybe turn your head,” Jon says. Ryan turns his head and his jaw is profiled and strong. Jon takes the picture. It’s nice but it feels off, it isn’t what he wants. “No here,” Jon drops down to his knees and his hand takes Ryan’s jaw gently the way he would handle something of value. Jon tilts Ryan’s face in just the right way. Ryan’s skin is warm and smooth where Jon is touching and Ryan lets out a small gasp as Jon touches him.

“This is good?” Ryan asks as he holds the pose. Jon nods.

“Very good.”

Ryan stays that way, perfect and still. He looks a little like a statue, long granite limbs and porcelain smooth face. When Jon wants to change the angle he kneels down again and he touches at Ryan’s elbow, signaling for him to move his arm, to tilt his head and straighten his legs. Ryan’s hair has been in his eyes for most of the shots and Jon wants a clear view of his eyes so without hesitation he moves his hand up and brushes away the curls that fall there.

Ryan’s eyes lock with his and Jon is briefly taken aback by the look he sees there. There is a heat burning in Ryan’s eyes and it could very well be a flicker, a ghost of something that Jon wants to be there. Jon’s hand lingers on Ryan’s face and time stutters around them. Right then it’s just the two of them crouching on the ground, so close but miles and miles apart.

Once again that unsettled feeling of unease knots up Jon’s stomach. He had thought that the rampaging desires would cease now that he had Tom back and was having sex on a fairly regular basis, but still being alone with Ryan; it’s all too clear just how much he wants. Jon recalls the staircase, how easy it would’ve been to kiss Ryan, how it’s even easier now.

“We should,” Jon clears his throat; he pulls back from the younger man. “We should go back.”

Ryan looks uncertain; he looks dazed, but he nods and stands up quickly, brushing the dirt off his pants. Jon sets his camera down and pulls on his socks and shoes. Ryan collects his untouched canvas and his bag and the two of them head back to the farm in a tense silence, avoiding each other’s line of sight the entire way.

Back at the farm Tom is finished with his work and he’s sitting in his rocking chair; Brendon and Spencer on the porch.

“Hey,” Tom says when they grow close to the porch. “How’d the photo session go?”

Jon forces a smile. “Good, got some real good shots.”

“Maybe you can give me some advice then,” Tom suggests. “I haven’t really messed with it much yet.”

Jon leans back against the railing. “Not much advice to give. I’ve just been taking photos of things I like to look at Things I think are beautiful, you know.”

Jon doesn’t even think about what he’s saying. He doesn’t. But after the words leave his mouth his chest seizes up and his eyes flick from Tom to Ryan. Ryan is looking down at his feet, the tips of his ears a bright pink. Jon looks away, looks back to Tom. No one notices the exchanged look; no one feels the tight tension in the air. Tom smiles loose and content, Jon’s stomach twists.

***

A few days later Jon and Tom manage to steal away a few precious moments of alone time. Ryan and Brendon are out working in the field and really have no reason to come into the house. Tom has Jon pinned against the counter, their hips pressed tight and hot, not an inch of space between them. Jon’s hands are gripping the edge of the counter and Tom’s hands are fisted in Jon’s hair, keeping him close and their mouths connected sloppy and wet.

They haven’t had the opportunity to fuck these last few days and the two of them are on edge, bodies tight with lust and heat. Tom bites at Jon’s mouth, sucking on his bottom lip making Jon’s head swim with foggy sweet pleasure.

“Do you think we have enough time for me to blow you?” Tom pulls away to ask. His breath his hot against Jon’s face and he grinds his hips against Jon’s, their cloth shielded cocks brushing. Jon hopes so, god he hopes so.

“I... I don’t-“Ryan and Brendon could come inside for a break, they could. If Tom and Jon do this then they probably shouldn’t stay in the kitchen. But Tom’s not waiting for an answer from Jon; his hands are reaching for Jon’s belt buckle, undoing it before tugging down the zipper of his pants.

“I can be quick,” Tom whispers against Jon’s mouth. Just before Jon mumbles out an agreement, just as Tom’s hand dips into Jon’s slacks, just then the door opens and one of their farmhands stumble into the house. Tom pulls back from Jon’s mouth and he freezes, his hand still breaching Jon’s pants and they’re too close to play it off, to make a joke of it. There’s too much evidence and after such a long time of being careful the two of them fucked up and Jon can feel the safe haven, the walls he and Tom built up all crashing down.

Ryan is standing frozen inside the frame of the door. His mouth is in a soft ‘o’ and his deep brown eyes are wide. None of them are moving, stuck and waiting with bated breath for the next move, for the impending clatter and implosion. Tom makes the first move. He pulls his hands from Jon and Jon has enough sense to do up his slacks. Ryan’s gaze is heavy, fiery, burning Jon’s skin, Jon’s whole body like flames licking at dying wooden logs.

“I should... I’m-“ Ryan stammers and he turns to try and dart back out the door but Tom is faster, smoother on his feet and he beats Ryan to the door, pushes it closed with a heavy hand. And now Ryan is trapped between the broad muscle of Tom’s chest and the solid wood of the door. Jon can see Ryan’s face fill with a silent panic, he watches it slowly bubble over the edges, crashing over the rest of his body.

Tom’s mouth is a hard line and for a fleeting moment Jon fears for Ryan’s safety, but Jon knows, he knows Tom wouldn’t hurt Ryan over this. Scare him into keeping quiet? Possibly, but hurt him? Never.

“Ryan, Ryan, listen,” Tom starts. Jon straightens himself up, bites at his swollen bottom lip and thinks about what to say, how to explain. Ryan peers at Jon from over Tom’s shoulder and he swallows thickly.

“You two are together?” Ryan questions, his words are treading carefully, probably fearing pissing off Tom.

“We are,” Jon confirms, his voice is both rough and soft and he clears his throat in an attempt to make it all go away, to rewind back to at least an hour ago when things were still safely tucked away, hidden. “We are but, Ryan-“

“I won’t say anything,” Ryan spits out quickly. He looks at Jon as he speaks, “I won’t.”

Tom looks over his shoulder at Jon.

“I believe him,” Jon admits. Tom looks down at Ryan.

“You’re not going to go and tell Brendon and Spencer are you?” Tom asks. He’s bearing down on Ryan; Jon can see the line of his back tense and hard, how the black suspenders he’s wearing are stretched with the way his arms are up over Ryan’s head, pressing against the door.

Ryan shakes his head, curls flopping with the motion.

“I’m serious, you know? This isn’t a fucking game. This is our life.” Tom sounds so worried and it’s been some time since Jon’s heard his lover anything but unflappable.

“I get it,” Ryan says, “I do. You two have been so kind to me…I’d never do that to you.” Ryan’s eyes had slipped back to Jon as he spoke and the way he said it ‘I’d never do that to you’ it makes Jon feel like he’s not so concerned with keeping Tom’s secret but keeping Jon’s.

Tom gives Ryan a once over before he backs away, returns to Jon’s side and in a freeing move he laces his fingers with Jon’s, because they can, because Ryan promised. Tom squeezes Jon’s fingers and Jon looks at him and smiles before he switches to Ryan. Ryan is surveying the two of them, as if he’s seeing them for the first time as a couple, as a duo, as if he’s seeing Jon for the first time.

“I’m going to go back to work now,” Ryan says as he motions towards the door. Tom nods approvingly and Jon lets his gaze fall to the dusty wood floorboards. Ryan goes back outside and its quiet before Jon feels callused fingers tipping his head up and his eyes meet a clear blue.

“Are you alright?”

Jon tries to smile. “I’m okay. I was scared, real scared. I thought, god, I thought we were gonna have to move and start all over again.”

“You trust him though? Ryan?”

“Of course I trust him, Tom.”

Tom lets his hand blossom over the side of Jon’s jaw. “Then that’s good enough for me.”

Jon leans in and rests his forehead against Tom’s, stares at him until he goes cross-eyed. “What the hell would you have done if he said he couldn’t keep quiet?”

Tom laughs. “I dunno actually. Intimidated him? I’m intimidating right?”

Jon kisses Tom briefly; that sexual energy that had been so charged between them just moments ago is vanished, the mood unsalvageable. “Sure you are.”

That night after Brendon’s gone upstairs Tom makes use of the fact that Ryan knows of their secret. They don’t have to hide the fact that they’re going to sleep in the same room tonight. Tom doesn’t fight the urge to brush his hands along Jon’s shoulders and neck as he passes by or to curl his fingers around Jon’s hip. Ryan watches them. Jon can tell he’s trying not to, but his gaze keeps meeting them, heat flaring in his cheeks. Jon and Tom go to bed before Ryan does, Tom leading Jon into the room. Jon spares a passing glance at Ryan who tries to smile supportively. Jon crumples on the inside. He should be happy, he should, but he’s not.

***

The harvest season has already begun when Tom decides to take half of their ripened produce down to Beckett’s for selling before the vegetation grows past its prime. Tom only takes what Ryan has boxed up and placed in the root cellar. Jon offers to go and help but Tom tells him to stay at the farm, to relax.

Today Spencer is at the farm and he’s teaching Brendon the basics of putting metal shoes on a horse; they aren’t doing it to Clover and Dylan seeing as Jon’s already taken care of that. The work on the farm is done for the most part and Ryan has taken the opportunity to sit on the wood of the porch with the canvas laid out in front of him. Ryan’s got one of those fancy rounded circles of wood, different colors of paint are decorating the wood in little splotches, mixing together and creating a myriad of new colors that Jon’s never seen before.

Jon had watched Ryan draw out a scene in faded pencil; an outline of what he’ll make come to life bringing the vision in his head to fruition. The two of them are silent, taking in the day or maybe just avoiding the real issue, the heavy secret that they both share the burden of now.

Jon breaks the silence first. “What are you drawing?”

Ryan glances at Jon before he answers. “The view of your land from the porch.”

They tumble into silence once again and Jon feels a thick lump of awkwardness settle in his throat.

“How long have you and Tom been together?”

Jon’s not as taken aback by the question as he thought he might be. “Ever since I was sixteen and he was seventeen.”

“Eight years.” Ryan sounds awed. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Sure, shoot.”

“How’d you know? What made you realize that you were, you know, that you liked men?” Ryan chokes the question out, his cheeks are warm and he’s halfheartedly shading in a tree on his canvas.

“I suppose I just thought about it and when I pictured my future, my life, there was never a woman by my side, but there was always Tom. I couldn’t imagine a part of my life without him in it. So one day in the barn I just leaned forward and kissed him.”

Ryan looks surprised. “You weren’t worried about how Tom would react?”

“’Course I was,” Jon laughs, “I was sure he was gonna clean my clock…but he didn’t. He kissed me right back.”

“No one else knows but me?” Ryan asks. He finally looks up at Jon, eyes waiting.

“We’ve never told anyone.”

“Not even your folks?”

“Nah, my dad died a while back and he never knew. My mom might know but neither of us is ever going to admit to it.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, I - "

Jon waves Ryan off. “Don’t worry about it.”

Silence blankets them and Ryan messes with the colors on his board, mixes a couple together until Jon recognizes the same color as the chipping paint of the horse barn.

“Why don’t you want Brendon and Spencer to know?” Ryan asks; he dips his brush into the color and Jon watches him touch canvas bringing it to life. Jon keeps his eyes on the gentle motion of Ryan’s hand as he paints in the horse barn.

“Knowing where Brendon grew up and what his father thinks. It’s not the best idea.”

Ryan looks up, his hand stilling. “And Spencer?”

“It’s not that I don’t trust them,” Jon tries to explain; “You just never know how someone is going to react. You think you know someone and then they find out you’re hiding somethin’ real important about yourself and just…”

“You’re afraid everyone you know will turn their back on you?” Ryan finishes for Jon, never once looking up from where he’s carefully painting in the shapes on the canvas.

“We don’t want to have to run away. We like our life here.”

Ryan freezes, brush poised over the canvas and he looks over at Jon through his lashes and his curls. There’s a curious look in his eyes, a tiny smile pulling the corner of his mouth.

“Does it ever get tiring? Living a lie?”

“I think,” Jon hums, “I think that even if people were okay with two men courting each other. I don’t think Tom and I’d be doing things much differently.”

Ryan keeps his gaze locked on Jon for a few long moments before he turns back to his art and continues panting. Jon stretches out his legs and yawns, he feels warm and sleepy but he was thinking of taking some photos of the horses today, maybe a few of Roosevelt and the remaining kittens they have.

Jon pushes himself up off the porch and heads back inside the house intent on grabbing the camera from his and Tom’s bedroom. Ryan stays curled up on the porch, painting. Jon’s never seen him quite so focused on something, how careful he is with his movements, how steady he is.

Once inside the bedroom Jon sees that the camera is missing from its position on the dresser. Jon had left it there last night as he and Tom retired to bed and as far as he knows Tom hadn’t mentioned using it or moving it. Jon searches the expanse of his bedroom and then the living room and kitchen. He doesn’t check upstairs because he knows he didn’t go up there with it.

Jon moves back outside and Ryan’s still painting, the horse shed is finished and Ryan’s moved on to the chicken coop; his brush stained a white-gray color.

“Have you seen my camera?” Jon asks. Ryan spares him a glance, just long enough for him to say that no, he hasn’t seen the camera. Just then Brendon and Spencer come out from around the side of the house. Brendon’s shirt is off and wet in his hands. He wrings it out and laughs at something Spencer says, his face bright and happy. “Brendon,” Jon calls. Brendon stops in his tracks as does Spencer but not before he bumps into Brendon’s slightly tanned, thin back.

“Yeah?”

“Have you seen my camera?”

Brendon’s face goes soft and he rubs at his chin a little as he thinks. “Yeah, Tom took it. He said he wanted to develop your photos.”

“Brendon,” Spencer hisses, “That was a surprise for Jon.”

Brendon’s eyes widen and his mouth falls open. “Oh! Jon. Jon, pretend I didn’t tell you! You gotta act surprised.”

Jon doesn’t need to act, he is surprised. He’s surprised but this iron ball of panic drops into his stomach, slamming into his guts. Jon has those pictures, those candid close ups of Ryan at the stream. Pictures of Ryan stretched out and beautiful. Jon hadn’t gotten around to telling Tom about that photo shoot, and he always thought he’d explain away the pictures beforehand, but now, now Tom is developing the pictures on his own and amongst the shots of the house and the fields, and a couple of Brendon and Jon himself taken by Tom, there will be these multitude of shots of Ryan, beautiful, waif, Ryan.

Tom’s not the jealous type, he’s not but he knows enough of Jon to know when Jon’s taken a shine to a person. That coupled with the sheer multitude of Ryan pictures versus Brendon or Spencer or god, even of Tom himself that will be enough of a tip off to Tom that all is not well.

“Jon?” Brendon asks softly, timid, afraid that he ruined the surprise. Jon looks to Brendon and he lets a small smile ghost over his face.

“I’ll be surprised, Brendon, trust me.”

Brendon seems pacified so he and Spencer go inside to start dinner. Jon sits on the porch, on the steps, watching for Tom, running dialogue in his head of things to say. He wonders about how this conversation will go. Ryan continues painting but every now and then he’ll raise his head and Jon will feel eyes burning on the back of his head.

It takes Tom an hour to come home from town. When he does dusk has already fallen and Ryan, Brendon, and Spencer are all inside, fixing up for dinner. Jon’s still on the porch, waiting. When he sees Tom he stands instantly. Tom isn’t walking fast like he does when he’s pissed off and from the distance and in the purpling sky around them, Jon can’t tell whether or not Tom looks angry.

He steps down off the porch and contemplates meeting Tom that way if they do argue it’ll take longer for the others to hear, for Tom to get to Ryan. It’s something Jon’s worried about; what Tom will do to Ryan. He worries Tom will want Ryan to go and that once again Ryan will be forced from a safe, steady home.

Tom is close, close enough that Jon can see he’s carrying a paper bag and his face is smooth and blank.

“Tom,” Jon tries to begin. He tries to get a feel for Tom’s mood, Tom’s emotion. Tom though, he just brushes past Jon and up the steps, pulls open the door and he’s inside the house. For a moment Jon stands in the yard, in the yellow patch of light falling out the doorway from inside the home. Jon stands there before he swallows and follows Tom into their home.

To Jon’s surprise Tom hasn’t rounded on Ryan yet. Tom’s standing at the counter where he’s set the bag and he’s lifting things out, a small bottle of milk that he hands off to Spencer, butter, he turns around to face Jon and he hands over a small thick yellowed envelope.

“For you,” he says his voice as empty as the look on his face. Brendon is staring at Jon alongside Tom and even Ryan. Jon takes the envelope and smiles as best he can with the knowledge that Tom is most likely upset at him.

“What is it?” Jon asks, he’s playing the fool like Brendon had requested, like he’d be doing anyway if he hadn’t been told. Tom brushes a hand through his hair.

“Just open it.”

Jon does as Tom says and slides the envelope open, inside are thick square cuts of thick paper, the photos. The pictures are all in black and white and it’s amazing to see the squares of photos, the images the way they are in Jon’s head. He gets a swell of pride, of accomplishment and he wonders if this is the same sort of rush that Ryan gets when he paints.

Tom stands there as Jon sifts through the photos; the horse barn, the world from outside Jon and Tom’s bedroom window. Jon keeps going until he finds the first one of Ryan; his head tipped down, all blacks and whites and grays, shadow and light. Jon was right; Ryan looks fucking gorgeous.

There are more pictures of Ryan, the ones where Jon posed him, they all came out amazing. The last one; the last one has Ryan looking right at the camera, the picture where Jon had wanted a shot of Ryan’s eyes. This photograph makes Jon stop, makes his breath catch in his chest. The look in Ryan’s eyes is so honest, it’s practically burning from the photograph, searing, tunneling its way into Jon’s chest.

Jon tucks the photos back into the thick envelope and closes it up. He looks at Tom and he’s not sure what his face is portraying, what it should be showing to Tom. For the most part Tom is bearing that same blank look but his clear blue eyes are dark and flicker with curiosity, they’re edged with something desperate and dangerous.

“I had no idea you were going to do this.”

“Surprise,” Tom’s voice echoes softly, the quiet hidden pain pangs around inside Jon’s chest.

“I love it, thank you, Tom.” Jon reaches out and rests his hand on Tom’s shoulder, he squeezes and tries with his silent touch to let Tom know how there’s no problem, how there’s nothing to worry about. Tom allows Jon’s hand to rest there for just a moment before he’s shrugging off Jon’s touch and turning back to the paper sack of groceries.

“I’m glad you like it,” Tom snipes.

Dinner that night is uncomfortable. Only Jon and Tom really know why there’s suddenly a heavy tension hanging around, making its presence known. Brendon, Spencer, and Ryan have no idea but they feel it too, the stifling stale air of anger, of words unspoken. They eat in mostly silence with a few bits of small talk being passed around.

No one bothers to stay awake longer than they have to. Spencer leaves after dinner and Brendon goes upstairs, presumably to sew. Ryan hangs around for only a few minutes before he too collects his things and heads upstairs even though he is now aware that no one will be using the couch tonight.

Tom goes into the room first, starkly quiet. Jon follows along behind him and when he enters the room Tom is standing in front of the closet, undoing the sliver clips of his suspenders and lowering them until they hang lose and limp by his waist. Jon closes their bedroom door, leans against it. He watches Tom shed his clothes until he’s down to his boxers, his back facing Jon. They’re quiet, the room still and that thick choking undercurrent of tension still hangs heady like smoke in the air between them. Tom’s not the type to argue, he’s the type to stew, to keep it all inside and let the world implode around him. Jon’s the opposite for the most part; he likes to talk any problems out. He wants to fix it before it has the chance to grow large and cancerous.

Tom moves and sits on the edge of the bed, his shoulders sag and he sighs.

“You know, you’re the worst at pretending something isn’t wrong,” Jon says from his safe position across the room, his back to the door. Tom almost smiles when he looks at Jon, almost.

“There’s nothin’ wrong.”

Jon pushes away from the door, tugs his shirt off and undoes the button and zipper of his pants letting them pool around his feet. He goes to his side of the bed and sits mirroring Tom so their backs are facing.

“Tom, I don’t know what you’re thinking but it’s-“

“What is it, Jon? What is it about Ryan that made you bring him here?” Tom doesn’t sound upset. He’s quiet like he’s thinking it over maybe a little curious as to what Jon will answer. Jon doesn’t know how to answer that. He doesn’t know what it is about Ryan that makes Jon want to keep him around. There is something, an invisible thread tying Ryan to Jon’s life now; Jon doesn’t want to lose it.

“There’s nothing. He’s just; he’s just a fella who needed a home.”

“So you give him ours.”

“Tom,” Jon turns so he’s facing Tom’s back. He crawls over the bed and lays his hand on Tom’s shoulder, squeezing like he had earlier. Tom sighs deep; he moves away and lies down on his back on the bed, arms crossed like he’s caging himself in, sheltering himself. Jon leans over Tom, looking down at him, begging him silently to see that he doesn’t have to worry. Jon hasn’t done anything with Ryan.

Tom turns his head so he’s looking right at Jon, gaze fiery and worn. “Are you attracted to him?” Tom asks; finally bringing his fears to life, bringing all of Jon’s thoughts and doubts into their room. Jon doesn’t want to lie; not to Tom, never to Tom. He reaches down and cups Tom’s stubble rough cheek, brushes a thumb down his cheekbone.

“I love you.”

It’s not an answer or at least not the one Tom wanted but he doesn’t say anything, doesn’t fight it because at the very least they both know that this is the truth. Jon dares to lean in and kiss Tom; his eyes open and locked on the other man the whole time. Tom lets Jon kiss him slow and careful. It’s a quiet meeting of their mouths devoid of that frenzy of lustwantneed that had been present in their love making since Tom’s return. Jon cups Tom’s face, holds him in place as they kiss.

“I love you,” Jon says again when they break away. He noses along Tom’s cheek, peppers kisses down his jaw and neck. Tom’s breath hitches and his rough hands grip Jon’s biceps. Jon moves to straddle Tom’s waist.

“I-I know,” Tom sighs out. Jon can feel Tom half hard already, the bulge of his cock brushing against Jon’s naked thigh. Jon leans in to kiss Tom again and Tom opens for him this time, one of Tom’s hands falls to Jon’s waist, holds tight, “Wait, Jon, wait,” Tom pants, he searches Jon’s face.

“What? What is it, Tom?” Jon kisses him soft, just a sweet gentle press of his mouth to Tom’s.

“Have... did you do this... with that kid, did you-“

“We didn’t, I would never do that to you.”

Tom nods, “I trust you, I do,” he says as he lets his fingers tangle in the hair at the nape of Jon’s neck. Jon dips down and kisses Tom again, his tongue sneaking into Tom’s mouth. They’re silent as they kiss, silent as Tom pulls away and tugs down his underwear, kicks them off. Jon doing the same.

Jon stretches Tom open, slow and careful. Tom is on his back and Jon presses damp kisses to the side of his knee, to his thighs, his eyes never once leaving Tom’s. Tom is quiet, bites back his moans even as Jon slicks himself up, lines up and starts to work his way inside. Jon stays close to Tom, not allowing space to push between them. Tom’s got his legs hitched around Jon’s waist and their faces are so close, sharing breath as they rock and breathe together.

Jon makes sure he watches Tom, watches him and kisses him and whispers again and again that he loves the other man. He needs Tom to know that, to always know that above all else that Jon loves him. Ryan is just a passing fancy; Jon believes this, he believes it will get better.

Tom’s rough padded fingers bite into the skin of Jon’s arms, dirty ragged nails scratching a little. Jon just kisses him harder, rolling his hips and biting at the hollow of Tom’s throat. The world dims around them blurring around the edges to anything that isn’t heat, skin, and wet mouths.

Jon fucks him slow; the same way he had kissed and stretched him. Tom is a tight familiar heat. Jon loves the way Tom looks while he’s being fucked, bitten red lips and wild electric eyes that have this soft edge to them right now. Tom arches with each thrust from Jon. Tom is holding on with his arms and legs wrapped around Jon’s body. It’s a beautiful tangle of limbs and air, colliding again and again until that tension dissipates and a warm ease surrounds them, closing around the two of them like a shell.

Tom comes first, breathing out Jon’s name in a stifled moan. Jon follows close, toppling over the edge and crashing into his orgasm, his entire body quaking. Afterwards Jon rests against Tom, body slumped and sticky. Tom kisses the side of his head as he catches his breath, his hands petting down Jon’s spine, trailing languid just the way Jon likes it. Jon presses his mouth to Tom’s lazy and tired. Jon falls asleep that way with Tom’s hand petting down his back, rubbing down the knots of his spine.

***

When Jon wakes up the next day Tom leans over the bed and kisses him as he dresses for the day. Tom’s already fully dressed minus his shoes, he’s snapping his black suspenders into place and he smiles against Jon’s hair. It’s safe to assume that their spat from last night is forgotten, the wound soothed but Jon knows it won’t take much to tear open what they had just soldered closed.

“Good morning,” Tom smiles. Jon reaches for him, intent on tugging him back down into their bed but Tom darts away. “Too much work to be done,” he says.

“We never cuddle anymore, we should be doing that all the time,” Jon grumps from the bed. Tom laughs, looking over his shoulder at Jon as he puts his shoes on.

“Don’t go all soft on me, Jon.” Tom winks at Jon as he leaves their bedroom. Jon chuckles softly and forces himself to get up and get dressed. As is the norm; breakfast is waiting for them but there’s only two plates so Ryan must be awake and outside already. Jon is thankful for that, he doesn’t think things between he and Tom are steady enough to re-introduce Ryan into the mix.

They eat and smile but they’re careful with each other. Jon is quick to take Tom’s dirty plate for him and hold the screen door open for him on their way outside. Sure enough Ryan is out in the field with his basket plucking ripe vegetation. It’s warm out and Ryan’s down to nothing but a thin undershirt and his dark slacks. Ryan looks up as Jon and Tom come outside. Jon’s already decided that he’ll stay away from Ryan for today just to solidify even more for Tom that he’s been faithful.

Jon goes about his work alongside Tom. He sticks close and he and Tom split the watering duty for the day. More than once Jon catches Ryan looking at the two of them; a heavy look of concern in his eyes, but he never approaches the two of them. Jon figures Ryan must’ve at least gathered what has happened; he must’ve figured that Tom’s seen the photos that Jon took at the stream.

The photos are tucked in the envelope sitting on the dresser in their room. Jon still loves the pictures and when he thinks back to the stark look in Ryan’s eyes he still gets chills down his spine from the naked emotion he had inadvertently captured.

Jon wonders what Ryan thinks, if he believes that Tom is upset with him, if he thinks Tom wants him gone. The thought of Ryan leaving or him sneaking out at night when the rest of the house is sleeping; comes to Jon, it makes his blood run cold and his throat close up. Jon just hopes Ryan is willing to stay, to wait out the tension and the quiet and the avoidance.

***

Sometime later when the sun is low in the sky, burning orange and melting out into the clouds in mass of gold, and pink, and blue. They’re just finishing up their work when Jon notices a figure approaching their home.

“Tom,” Jon says quickly. Tom straightens up from where he’s bent over the plants, weeding them. The figure is that of a man, he’s older, heavy set and tall, very obviously the build of a farmer. Jon doesn’t recognize the man right away; with his salt and pepper hair and unfamiliar face.

The man comes right up to their driveway and he stops there, resting his hand on the fencepost. Tom wipes his hands on his pants and glances at Jon before he steps out of the field and walks down the yard to meet up with the man. They really don’t get much traffic on the road; they’re out of the way, though occasionally they do sometimes get townsfolk who ask for produce at a discount from the store.

Jon stands in the field and he watches the man and Tom talk for a few moments. Tom smiles pleasantly; Jon looks back at Ryan in case the younger boy knows the man. Ryan meets his gaze and he shrugs before he dips and goes back to work. Tom nods, brushes a dirty hand through his hair, and walks back to Jon, the man following a small distance behind.

“Who is he?” Jon asks when Tom reaches him.

“He says he’s looking for Brendon.”

“Well, who is he?” Jon doesn’t think Brendon knows a lot of people in town and he doesn’t really just want to hand the boy over without finding the reasons. Tom rubs at the back of his neck.

“He says he’s Brendon’s dad.”

Jon looks back up at the man, who’s closing in on them, and it all clicks; he hadn’t seen Brendon’s father in quite some time, and the man had gotten heavier since then, rendering him unrecognizable to Jon. Brendon’s father is right in front of them now and he smiles at Jon and nods.

“I’m looking for my son. Brendon? I heard he’s been helping out here.”

“He’s been living here, actually. Ah, let me go and get him,” Jon starts, but before he can, Ryan speaks up.

“I’ll get him,” Ryan interjects, but before he can leave, he turns, and there’s Brendon standing there already, handkerchief in his hands and a confused look on his face.

“Pa?” Brendon says in surprise. “What are you doing here?” Jon turns back to Brendon’s father and smiles friendly. He remembers what Brendon said about how his dad had kicked him out of the house, had told him not to come back until he was doing something with his life.

“Your sister, Mary, told me that you’re living here now,” Brendon’s dad replies.

Brendon’s dad steps up to his son; he’s taller than Brendon, thicker and wider. He smiles and offers Brendon his hand, which Brendon takes without missing a beat. Jon can see it, though, the twitch in the younger boy’s limbs that means he really just wants a hug. It’s odd to say, but Jon can’t actually picture Brendon, even a Brendon of any age, throwing his arms around his father in the same way he does to everyone on the farm – well, everyone except Tom, but Jon blames that on Brendon not knowing Tom well enough yet.

“I came to talk to Mr. Walker and Mr. Conrad, actually,” Brendon’s dad says. That’s a surprise to Jon and he glances to Tom and then Brendon, who looks slightly put out. “But perhaps we can chat inside? It’s mighty hot out and this heat is getting to me.”

“Oh, of course, Mr. Urie; we’ll all go inside and –”

“I was hoping,” Mr. Urie starts. “That I may talk to you and Mr. Conrad alone for a moment, and then we’ll talk to Brendon.”

“I…sure.” Jon smiles. Brendon visibly shrinks; he looks a little like a child who’s being excluded from hearing something important, something that very well concerns him. Tom leads the way into the house, Jon and Mr. Urie in tow. Brendon and Ryan stick out in the field, not talking, but watching.

Once inside, Mr. Urie sits at the kitchen table with Tom and Jon. He doesn’t look much like Brendon, but he still smiles warmly at the two of them.

“So, how can we help you, Mr. Urie?” Tom asks.

“Well, it’s been brought to my attention that Brendon is living here now,” Mr. Urie begins.

“For awhile now, yes,” Jon says. Tom nods in agreement.

“Is there a problem?” Tom asks. Mr. Urie scratches at his chin before he folds his hands together in front of him.

“Yes, I’m afraid there is; you see, I don’t think Brendon living here is the best idea.”

Jon tilts his head in confusion. “And why not?”

“I’m sure you two are more than aware of the kinds of rumors that get spread ‘round town. I’m sure you know the importance of holding one’s appearance in society and how sometimes children can taint the names of their fathers.”

“I’m not following, Mr. Urie,” Tom says.

“I’m trying to tell you that I don’t want Brendon living here any longer.”

“Forgive me, Mr. Urie, but Brendon told me that you kicked him out; why do you care where he goes?”

“He is my son,” Mr. Urie sounds offended, angry.

“We take good care of him here. He does good work,” Tom points out. Mr. Urie doesn’t seem impressed by this, quite the opposite.

“Let me put this as simply as I can,” Mr. Urie begins, “I know what you two are and I don’t want my son around that kind of lifestyle.”

Tom smirks and sets his palms against the table, leans forward slightly. “And what are we?”

Mr. Urie looks uncomfortable; “You’re heathens, sins against god and nature, queers,” Mr. Urie spits like the words are vile poison trapped in his mouth. Jon’s blood runs cold and he can feel Tom tensing up next to him. They’ve rarely talked to Mr. Urie, but it’s apparent he believes that Tom and Jon are lovers.

“I think it’s time for you to go,” Tom practically growls. He stands and Mr. Urie peers at Jon before he sneers and stands level with Tom.

“Two men living together, all alone? That just ain’t natural.”

“Leave my house now, Mr. Urie. I won’t ask again.”

Mr. Urie backs towards the door. “Don’t you worry ‘bout that. I don’t want to be in this house of sin any longer than I have to be. I’m taking my son and we’re leaving.”

“What makes you think Brendon will leave with you?” Jon asks. He’s standing now, too, following as Tom crowds Brendon’s father out the door. The argument carries out onto the front porch, and now Brendon is looking up, with worried eyes and a shocked expression.

“Pa,” Brendon tries.

“Brendon, come along. We’re leaving,” Mr. Urie snaps.

“What? Pa, what?” Brendon isn’t moving.

“We’re not asking you to leave,” Jon says quickly, Brendon’s eyes follow him. Mr. Urie stops and rounds on Jon.

“Do not talk to my son. He’s spent far too much time here already. Who knows how much church he’ll need to wash away the impurity?”

“Impurity? Father, I don’t –”

“Brendon, would you open your damn eyes? Don’t tell me you’re such a fool that you can’t see what these two are.”

“Father –” Brendon’s eyes are lit up and terrified; his gaze dances between his father and Tom and Jon.

“They’re queers, Brendon. These two are demons in human flesh, and every second you spend around them, your soul is becoming darker!”

Brendon’s eyes grow huge and dark and his mouth falls open. Jon can feel the foundation he and Tom had built, their support crumbling into huge holes in their walls. First Ryan, and now Brendon – Brendon, who is so kind and unendingly caring; Jon is terrified to see a hate there.

“We need to go, Brendon. Now! Come on!” Mr. Urie snaps. He grabs up Brendon’s arm and tugs him towards the exit of the farm. Brendon stumbles, but he stops and shrugs off his father’s touch.

“I’m not... I’m not going anywhere,” Brendon says. Mr. Urie stops and whirls around on his son.

“You what?”

“I’m not going home with you,” Brendon repeats. For a moment, the two of them just stare at one another, Mr. Urie glaring in disbelief at his son. “You told me to leave,” Brendon continues. “You told me to leave the house and not to come back until I was something. I miss Ma and the kids but I don’t…I don’t want to go home, especially if you’re talking like this about my friends.”

“Your friends? They’re heathens, Brendon. They’re due for hell, and if you live here, you’ll surely join them.”

Brendon looks down at the ground. Tom is tense next to Jon and Jon himself is filled with anger and disgust. He doesn’t understand how Brendon could be related to this man. Brendon looks up at his father, firm determination on his face.

“Then that’s where I’ll be.”

Mr. Urie’s face twists in anger. “You are a fool, Brendon, and as of this moment, you are no longer welcome at my home. I disown you as of right now; you are no son of mine.” Brendon’s father looks to Jon and Tom. “And you two have tainted my child, you sinners. I’ll tell the whole town what you are, I will.”

“You won’t,” Tom starts. “You won’t because Brendon lives here, and like you said, one child could bring down a whole family’s reputation.”

Brendon’s dad glares hard at Tom, which only serves to prove Tom right; that Mr. Urie won’t say anything because of the implications that Brendon himself would be considered the same as Jon and Tom. Mr. Urie throws one last scathing look at the whole lot of them before he leaves the farm trudging away with heavy, angry steps.

After Brendon’s father is gone, all the heat and anger seem to rush out of the atmosphere surrounding them; it leaves this empty, crumpling, fragile space. That careful morning that Jon had built is all but shattered apart. Tom is upset; it’s obvious in the way he’s holding himself, in the hard edge of his jaw. Jon wants to soothe him, wants to tell him that it’ll be okay, but at this point, even he doesn’t believe it.

None of them talk until Mr. Urie is out of sight, and then it’s Brendon who speaks.

“Jon?” Brendon asks carefully. “Jon, I’m sorry he said those things. I don’t…I’m not like him and I don’t believe him, so I’m just really sorry, alright?”

Jon glances at Tom, who sighs. “Just fuckin’ tell him, Jon,” Tom spits before he goes to the side of the house and leans against it, huffing angrily. Brendon’s eyebrows raise, knit together in confusion; Ryan all the while standing back, separating himself from everything, but still drinking it all in.

“He’s right, though, Brendon. Not about us being sinners or demons or any of that nonsense, but about Tom and I being lovers…he’s right…we’re – we are.”

“Oh.” That’s all Brendon says, and it’s not enough for Jon to be able to tell what he’s thinking.

“Yeah, ‘M sorry we didn’t tell you. It’s not something Tom and I advertise, you know?”

“I get it,” Brendon says. He slinks over to Jon and then he’s wrapping Jon in a warm, tight hug. Despite Brendon sounding so powerful and sure when he stood up to his dad, Jon can feel his entire body shaking, his arms trembling as he holds on to Jon. “I’m sorry,” Brendon says again. “I’m sorry he said that. I’m sorry.”

Brendon is crying against Jon’s shoulder, his fingers are clinging to Jon’s dress shirt, and no one is talking. Jon hugs Brendon and he thinks he can hear the frustrated sound of Tom kicking the side of the house, the dull thud of his shoes against paneled siding. From over Brendon’s shoulder, Jon can see Ryan, who had no part in the events of today. Jon wonders if Ryan is relieved that he no longer has to be the only one carrying the burden of Jon and Tom’s secret. The feeling that they trust so many people with their secret, with their life, the fear of that makes Jon shake almost as badly as Brendon.

The remainder of the night is a weighted silence. They barely talk during dinner, too many thoughts running around in each of their heads. The severity of what Brendon’s father said seems to have caught up with Brendon and he eats solemnly; a tiny little thing with red-rimmed eyes and a sullen mouth. Tom is frustrated, infuriated, and its only after dinner and Brendon’s departure upstairs that Tom takes his aggressions out on the wallpapered wood of the kitchen wall, leaving him with bruised knuckles.

Jon patches his hand up for him; it isn’t much but cleaning it and wrapping some thin cloth around his knuckles. Ryan stays out of their way that night, but he doesn’t go upstairs like Jon had been thinking he would. Instead, Ryan sits in the corner where Brendon used to sew his cots and he paints. Jon does notice that Ryan won’t look at them, won’t talk to them; he just sits there with his knees drawn up and his chin hooked over his knee, hand moving the brush with careful precision.

“Do you think,” Ryan begins when Jon and Tom are about to head to bed. “Do you think I could sleep on the couch again, seeing as we all know nobody uses it?”

Jon looks back at him; Ryan curled in the corner, hair falling into his eyes. “Sure, yeah, go ahead.”

In bed, Jon and Tom discuss briefly with light voices what they’ll do if Brendon’s dad does actually tell everyone in town what he thinks.

“It’s just a rumor; that’s what we’ll say,” Tom decides.

“Or one of us is going to have to marry Greta Salpeter,” Jon jokes.

“And she’ll really be sleeping with Ross,” Tom laughs. Jon tries to laugh, but the thought makes him sick to his stomach. “We’ll be alright, though,” Tom adds. “We’ve got enough that if we gotta leave, then we’ll be alright. Maybe you can even come rail-running with me.”

“And what would happen to Brendon and Ryan?” Jon asks.

“’M not sure. They could do whatever they wanted, I suppose.”

“Tom, Brendon gave up his family defending us. We can’t just abandon him. He’d have nowhere else to go.”

“Same for Ryan?” Tom questions. He tilts his head to the side and waits for Jon to answer. Jon rests his palm on the soft expanse of Tom’s stomach, fingertips tracing against Tom’s skin.

“He doesn’t have anyone, either.”

Tom pushes rough fingers through Jon’s hair, scratches lightly at Jon’s scalp. “It’s a little like having kids, I imagine,” Tom jokes. Jon smiles sadly. That’s another thing that he and Tom will never have, children of their own; there’s just no way. “I guess we’re keeping them, then,” Tom laughs. Jon leans in and kisses him before he rests his head on Tom’s chest; he feels better and he has faith that they’ll be okay.

There is no fallout the next day; no backlash or angry mobs trying to break down their door. Life resumes and Jon settles. Spencer comes by bright and early and he seeks out Brendon right away. Jon doesn’t know what they talk about, nor can he hear their discussion, because Brendon is standing by the horse barn when Spencer finds him. Jon sees Spencer wrap his arms around Brendon, holding him like Jon had the day before, hands carefully cupped over Brendon’s shoulder blades and Brendon’s face tucked into Spencer’s neck. Jon forces himself to look away; it feels a little like he’s encroaching on an intimate scene.

With all the commotion that happened the day before, it’s easy to forget the undercurrent of tension that had been spiraling around Jon and Tom. Today, Jon doesn’t hesitate to go and talk to Ryan. The hay is ready for cutting and bailing, and Ryan’s begun the process by cutting down the thick golden stalks of hay and piling them together.

Later, once their work for the day is done, Ryan is seated on the porch with his half finished painting on his lap. Tom is inside reading the paper and Jon takes the opportunity to plop down next to Ryan on the stairs and show him the thick, papery photos. Ryan’s eyes widen as he flips through the pictures, his gaze catching on the ones of himself, maybe stopping at that own naked look in his eyes.

“They’re… they’re amazing, Jon,” Ryan says, breathing quietly. He hands the photos back and their fingers brush. Jon gets that buzzing under his skin, gooseflesh exploding over his body. Ryan really does sound awed and it makes Jon proud of his photos, of the way he captured his world. Tom never mentioned whether or not he actually liked the pictures; they only discussed the content, but Jon feels like even if Tom didn’t like them, as long as Ryan did, then Jon still would be just as proud.

“I like ‘em. I like ‘em a lot,” Jon agrees; he laughs and scratches at his neck.

“Do you feel better?” Ryan asks out of the blue. “Do you feel better with Brendon knowing your secret?”

“It feels good to not have to call it a secret at home. I’m glad that you and Brendon aren’t like Brendon’s dad.”

“You thought we’d hate you?” Ryan says. He sounds surprised.

“You never know what someone will think.”

“That’s true.” Ryan goes back to painting. He hums while he paints, filling in the green of the grass and the brown and gold of the fields. “Can I – ” Ryan begins; his hand stills, and Jon tears his gaze away from Ryan’s hands and looks up to meet his face. “Can I tell you something?”

Ryan sounds nervous, and Jon doesn’t know why he would be, but it makes Jon’s stomach lurch and loop.

“Sure; ‘course.” Jon tries to smile past his nerves. Ryan’s mouth curves up in the ghost of a smile.

“I wanted to tell you that I –”

“Jon! Hey, Jon! C’mere,” Tom is calling from inside the house, interrupting whatever it was Ryan had wanted to say, words that Jon finds himself desperate to hear. Ryan looks to the house and then to Jon and he closes his mouth, nods towards the home.

“Better go.”

“Yeah,” Jon agrees. He pushes himself up off the porch and goes into the house, leaving Ryan outside with the painting. Inside, Tom is leaning against the counter in the kitchen. There’s a look on Tom’s face that’s edging on dark, flirty. “You called?” Jon teases. Tom doesn’t say anything, but he brings a hand up, motioning for Jon to come to him. Jon does and Tom curls a warm hand over his hip.

“I was thinking,” Tom says. His fingers push up under the hem of Jon’s dress shirt, rough-tipped fingers sneaking upwards, claiming suntanned expanses of skin. “That you and I could sneak off to the barn?” While Tom’s talking, his other hand is tracing down Jon’s lower back, briefly cupping his ass before it runs to the front of Jon’s slacks, and then he squeezes at the slight bulge already growing in Jon’s pants. “I’ll make it worth your while,” Tom whispers lowly against Jon’s ear.

Jon shivers and presses forward, making their hips collide. Tom grips him tight, holds him in place and lets out a groan that sounds more like a growl. Tom is hard; Jon can feel his cock pressing against his thigh, and oh, fuck, he wants, he wants so badly.

“Why the barn?” Jon asks, seconds before Tom places a firm kiss to his mouth. It’s dry, Tom’s mouth chapped slightly.

“Because Ross is on the porch and it’s almost dinner time. Brendon will want to be in here cookin’. This way you and I can have a quick roll in the hay; what do you say?” Tom winks. It’s laughable more than it is a turn on, but Jon still leans in and kisses Tom back, with tongue this time. They make out in the safety of the house, slow and quiet, mouths heated and slick and slanted together. Eventually it gets too hard to wait any longer; they’re both aching and turned on, and Jon hopes that the dark fabric of their pants will cloak their bulges until they make it to the horse barn.

To Jon’s surprise, Tom wraps his fingers around his wrist on the way out of the house, his thumb rubbing circles against Jon’s skin. Ryan is focused on painting, so Jon thinks maybe he doesn’t see, but he can feel Ryan’s eyes on them on their first purposeful display of affection.

Brendon and Spencer seem to have vanished from the field near the barn where Jon had last seen them. He’s not worried about them right now, though; he knows Brendon will be alright as long as they support him, as long as they love him then they can be Brendon’s new family and they can make up for what Brendon is sure to miss.

Tom and Jon walk to the barn from around the field instead of walking through it. This means that they come up to the side of the horse barn before they reach the front doors. The barn has empty slots on the sides for the horses to slip their heads through. Dylan does this and Jon makes them stop, Tom rolling his eyes, so he can pet the horse.

“Dylan, buddy; hey, there.” Jon runs his hands over Dylan’s smooth gray muzzle. Dylan snorts happily and Jon feels Tom’s hand loosen from his wrist. Jon glances over and sees Tom peering into the second slot where Clover usually sticks her head out. Tom is staring with concentration like he doesn’t quite understand what he’s looking at or how whatever it is works.

“Tom, what –”

“Shh! C’mere, Jon,” Tom whispers, and he urges Jon over to the slot. Jon crowds into Tom’s space. He’s still hard, they both are, and they both bite back groans as Jon’s cock brushes against Tom’s clothed ass.

“What am I looking at?” Jon whispers. Tom looks back at Jon over his shoulder.

“There in the corner. You see what I’m seein’?”

Jon squints and scans the expanse on the right side of the barn that he can see from the slot. From here, he can see Clover to the right, her head bowed as she eats, and to his left is Dylan, eyeing them suspiciously. But on the other side of the barn, tucked in the hay stacked corner are two figures, two figures that Jon quickly realize are Brendon and Spencer.

From what Jon can see, Spencer has Brendon mostly on his back in the clean hay in the corner. Spencer is on top of Brendon, but he’s holding himself up and he’s leaning to the side as if he doesn’t want to cage Brendon in. One of Brendon’s hands is fisted in the back of Spencer’s expensive dress shirt, and the other is grabbing a handful of straw. Spencer’s hands are cupping Brendon’s face because they’re kissing.

Brendon and Spencer are kissing.

“Oh,” Jon says.

“Should I get a bucket of water?” Tom snorts.

Jon watches the way Brendon pulls Spencer down, pulls the boy more firmly on top of him, the way he hitches his leg up over Spencer’s hip.

“I think Brendon’s finally figuring himself out,” Jon whispers. He pulls Tom away from the slot and Tom clucks his tongue at Jon.

“Or this is a real bad reaction to what happened yesterday.”

“I believe he wants this. I think he’s wanted it all along.” Jon smiles.

“Well, I’m hard and our barn is occupied,” Tom huffs.

Jon takes Tom’s hand in his own, “Behind the chicken coop?”

Tom grins wide, “I like your thinking. No wonder I keep you around.”

Jon rolls his eyes and leads Tom away from the barn and to the back of the square chicken coop. He can hear the birds’ clucking softly from inside, but it’s not enough to deter him from dropping to his knees in the grass and reaching for Tom’s belt.

***

Neither Jon nor Tom bring up what they saw in the barn and Spencer winds up staying for dinner. Even if Jon hadn’t witnessed what had happened between the two of them, he reckons he’d still be suspicious, considering the numerous times Brendon blushes or stammers or knocks over a cup during dinner. Brendon won’t look at anyone, not even Spencer, and Jon wonders if maybe Tom was onto something when he said that this was all just because Brendon’s dad said no.

Spencer doesn’t seem the type to just rush into something, though, and every time Brendon stutters or spills or avoids eye contact, Spencer seems to take it in stride; maybe he even finds it endearing. Ryan knows nothing of what happened as far as Jon knows, though he refers back to earlier that day when Ryan had wanted to tell him something. They had never picked the conversation back up and now it picks at Jon’s mind, worming its way inside until the curiosity is spreading.

Jon had thought Spencer might ask to spend the night, considering it would give him and Brendon even more alone time to explore Brendon’s assumed new interests in him, but after dinner, Spencer bids everyone goodnight. He even gifts them all with hugs, but Jon thinks this is more an excuse to hug Brendon without it being out of the blue.

Brendon excuses himself early that night. There’s a light pink blush spread across his cheekbones and Jon smiles at that. He hopes Brendon will tell him someday soon, will trust Jon with his secret in a way Jon couldn’t afford to do with his own.

The next day, Jon and Ryan begin the task of bundling up the hay. It’s a difficult, tedious task, and usually Tom and Jon do it together, but Ryan had said he wanted to help and so Tom gave up his spot, watering the fields instead. The work itself isn’t too bad; it’s simply cutting down the stalks from the root and then laying them out in a line, building and pushing until it keeps a shape; then, taking the twine and wrapping it around the cluster of stalks, pulling and tying until all the bits are packed down into a huge, heavy square. The hardest part is getting the heavy squares up into the cart; the bundles weigh even more than hefting around the watering device for a day or two.

Things go fine, even without Tom working with him. Ryan picks up quickly, and despite his small stature, he’s able to summon the strength to get the bales of hay up to Jon.

“Ryan,” Jon says. He’s standing inside the cart with Ryan on the ground handing him the bales. Soon, they’ll trade positions. Ryan looks up at him, wiping away the sweat collecting on his forehead. “Do you remember yesterday? You said you wanted to tell me somethin’.”

Ryan’s jaw tightens and his eyes flicker in this curious way, but he nods. “I remember.” The younger boy bends to pick up the bale of hay he’s finished tying and with barely quaking arms; he offers it up to Jon.

“Still wanna tell me?” Jon presses as he retrieves the bale from Ryan and sets it to his right, on top of another bale. Ryan kneels on the ground to make sure the twine is secure on the next bundle. Jon thinks Ryan might not answer; it’s a silent request to change the subject.

They repeat the process; Ryan lifts another bale, and Jon takes it. This time, though, he has to step up on one of the already packed bales so he can allow the newest bale to take the spot he had just been standing in.

“Sure,” Ryan says. He stoops again and checks the twining of the next bale. “I was going to tell you... well –” Ryan’s words turn into a strained groan as he lifts a particularly heavy bale of hay. Ryan’s whole body shakes as he hands it up to Jon, who has to stand on one bale and lean over the edge of the cart to get his hands on it. “I didn’t think it was such a weird thing. You and Tom being together, I mean.”

Jon sets the bale into the cart, the stacks around him growing high already. “Really?” He didn’t expect that. He’s never met another person who was gay to his knowledge and he certainly never thought someone would find it normal. Up until now, Jon’s believed that Ryan and Brendon have accepted what Jon and Tom are because they’re friends, because they live at the farm, because they have to. He never really allowed himself to wonder if they perhaps really thought nothing of two men being in a relationship.

“Yeah.” Ryan lifts another bale. Jon stands on the bales again, leans over the cart once more to retrieve it. “See, I get it, because, well. I’ve tried it before, you know,” Ryan says. He says it so casually, with a shrug and a wave of his hand, and Jon is so completely thrown off-guard that he freezes leaning over the cart, bale in his hands. Unfortunately, because of his hesitation and the fact that he’s atop two tall bales, Jon winds up tumbling over the edge of the cart and colliding hard to the dirty ground.

It all happens so fast Jon barely registers anything. He gets the wind knocked out of him and he coughs and chokes and sputters. His head is throbbing from meeting the ground, and his entire body is flaring in pain, yelling at him for his stupid actions. Ryan is instantly kneeling at his side, his face a sickly pale and his eyes huge.

“Jon! Are you alright?” Ryan rushes out. His hands are on Jon’s chest as if he’s checking for a heartbeat.

“I’m… fuck. I think I’m fine. Just got the wind knocked out of me, is all.” Jon sits up, tries to push himself up off the ground, but the second he puts pressure on his right leg, an electric shock of pain runs down his leg, and his body crumples back to the ground. “Maybe I’m not alright,” Jon murmurs.

By now, Tom has noticed what has happened, and it’s only seconds before he’s there, too, looking down at the two of them with dark, wild eyes. Tom, of course, in his fear and anger, rounds on Ryan.

“What the fuck happened?” Tom barks.

“I fell,” Jon answers before Ryan can give one. Tom drops to his knees and he’s gingerly lifting up Jon’s leg. Jon flinches and swears.

Tom frowns deep.”How’d this happen?” His voice is quiet and harsh.

“I lost my balance on the cart… that’s all,” Jon explains. He leaves out the part where Ryan’s confession of being less than straight basically shocked him right to the ground.

“Come on, you never make rookie mistakes like that,” Tom says. He practically glares at Ryan; the look he’s giving is cold and hard. “I think your ankle is sprained, Jonny.”

“No, no. I’m – I’m fine.” Jon tries to stand again, but he cringes with the white-hot pain and his legs buckle under him. Ryan reaches to steady Jon and Tom glares again.

“Don’t you think you’ve done enough?” Tom snarls. Ryan backs down immediately. Jon is reminded of how his grandfather once told him about wolves and wild dogs, how there’s always an alpha male and a challenger and how sometimes the alpha has to bite the challenger a few times before the challenger understands just who he is.

“Tom,” Jon tries, but Tom shushes him. Without another word, Tom is getting his arms under Jon. Jon hooks his arm around Tom’s neck as Tom stands, lifting Jon bride-over-the-threshold style and settling him in the back of the hay-filled cart. Tom adjusts Jon’s body until Jon’s injured leg is elevated slightly and he’s got almost a nest out of the hay bundles.

“Jon, I’m going to go and get Brendon so he can hitch up the horses. I’m takin’ you into town to see Dr. Van Vleet.” Tom says; he looks at Ryan. “And you try not to hurt anyone else while I’m gone.”

“Tom, we can’t afford that!” Jon calls from his nest in the back of the cart. His leg can’t be that bad. He’ll stay off of it for a few days and then he’ll be as good as new. Tom waves Jon off.

“Sean owes me,” he says before he goes to the horse barn.

Ryan is still wavering by the edge of the cart, looking scared and miserable and a little put out.

“I’m sorry, Jon,” Ryan says once Tom’s gone. He comes to the edge of the cart and peers inside; his eyes have this soft hurt to them.

“Ryan, really, this was my fault. I lost my balance. You didn’t do anything.”

“Try telling that to Tom,” Ryan huffs, just this side of bitter. Jon laughs; he shouldn’t, but he does.

“Don’t let Tom get to you’. When he gets scared, the whole world becomes his enemy. He’ll apologize later. I guarantee it.”

Ryan still looks unsure, but Jon doesn’t have any more time to comfort him because he can hear Tom returning with Brendon and the horses in tow.

“Yeah, just hitch ‘em up, Brendon,” Tom is saying. “And I’m gonna need you to come with and ride in the back with Jon to make sure he’s not hurtin’ the whole way into town.”

Brendon nods. Jon can barely see him from his position sprawled on his back, but Jon thinks Brendon looks confused as to why he’s being asked to come when Ryan is right there.

“And you,” Tom turns to Ryan. The heat in his eyes has gone down and his tone is less severe. “You just wait here.”

“Fine,” Ryan mutters coldly.

Brendon and Tom hitch Dylan and Clover up to the cart. Tom crawls onto the driver’s bench. Brendon hands Tom the reigns to the horses before he’s hopping into the back of the cart, settling down at Jon’s side.

“You alright, Jon?” Brendon asks, he is on his knees and, smiling kind and warm like the same, old Brendon. Jon nods and tries not to shift his leg too much. His back aches and his leg feels heavy and useless. The road to town is weathered with dips and jagged holes, and every time the cart hits one of these holes, the cart jumps and Jon’s body jerks, his leg screaming in pain.

It gets so bad that Brendon has to change positions so he can drape Jon’s leg over his lap and hold it in place over the bumps. Tom has settled down, but Jon still catches the occasional murmured swears.

“I really did fall, Tom,” Jon calls from the back.

“Like hell you did. That kid had to have done somethin’ wrong,” Tom hollers back over the clip-clop of the horses’ hooves against the dirt ground.

“I climbed too high and toppled over. It was stupid, but it happened.”

Tom doesn’t respond and Jon lets his head loll to the side while they’re passing by the line of buildings that lead into town. Once they reach the post office, Tom takes a right past Beckett’s grocery, and then it’s only a handful of feet until they’re in front of the rectangular doctor’s office. Tom tugs the horses’ reigns so the cart halts to a stop in front of the building. There isn’t much to the makeshift clinic; the building is made of thick gray slabs of stones and a large square pane of glass is cut into the wall with the word ‘Doctor’ painted in black.

Tom jumps from the bench of the cart and comes around to the side. “I’m going to go inside and get Sean to help us lift Jon from the back,” Tom shouts to Brendon before he’s pushing open the glass door, the little bell affixed to the top of the door jangling pleasantly. Brendon helps to sit Jon up just as Tom returns with Sean in tow. Sean is tall, with sandy blonde hair and rugged good looks. He’s dressed in his white overcoat and he smiles at Jon as he steps to the cart.

It takes the three of them to maneuver Jon out of the cart. Brendon’s holding him around the middle and Tom gingerly lifts his bottom half, lowering Jon out of the cart and into Sean’s awaiting arms. Jon doesn’t let Sean cradle him in the same way Tom had; his leg is hurt, but he’s not an invalid. Jon just leans the majority of his weight on Sean and brings his injured leg up to rest off the ground, his arm looped around Doctor Van Vleet’s neck.

Tom comes to Jon’s other side and Jon circles his other arm around Tom’s neck, mirroring his position with Sean. Together, along with Brendon, they lead Jon into the clinic. Sean settles Jon down on to the long, padded table in a room in the back of the clinic.

“How’d this happen?” Sean asks Tom rather than Jon as he bends to roll the pant leg of Jon’s slacks up.

“I fell off the cart outside when we were bailing hay,” Jon answers. He flinches as Sean touches at his already swelling ankle.

“That hay is nasty business. Does it hurt when I bend it like this?” Sean asks as he moves Jon’s leg a bit. Jon nods.

“A bit, yeah.”

“And here?” Sean asks. This time, he’s touching at Jon’s ankle. Jon can’t quite bite back the gasp of pain. Sean moves and sits on his little padded stool next to Jon, “Looks like we’re dealing with a particularly bad sprain. I reckon you’ll be off your foot for two weeks at least.”

“Two weeks? I can’t be off my feet for two weeks. It’s harvest season; it’s one of our busiest.”

“Sorry, Jon, doctor’s orders,” Sean smiles and shrugs, and Tom glowers quietly. “We’ll have to wrap that ankle, but I can give you some crutches,” Sean adds as he stands. Sean gets Jon fitted with two wooden crutches, the rubber tips catching against the tile floor. Jon stands, his bad foot curled up and his weight bearing down on the crutches.

“How much for the crutches?” Tom asks Sean. Tom is digging in his pants for his faded wallet, but Sean waves him off.

“Don’t worry about it, Tom,” Sean says as he claps Tom on the shoulder. Sean is a good friend of Tom’s. He used to run the rails with Tom before he was taken under the wing of an ailing doctor. That doctor taught Sean everything he knew and when he died he left his practice to Sean, the same building that Sean works in now.

“I appreciate it, Sean.”

Jon’s not used to walking with the crutches and avoiding using his right leg. He stumbles a bit, but Brendon and Tom are there to steady him with a hand on his back. They get to the cart and Jon has to lean on Tom and Sean as Brendon sets his crutches in the back. It takes the three of them to get Jon in the cart once again, Tom holding on to Jon’s middle as he passes him up to Brendon and Sean.

Tom waves goodbye to Sean as he snaps the reigns, circling out of town and heading back home.

“What are we going to do, Tom? Harvest is our busiest season,” Jon calls.

“I’ll have to double up on the work…”

“Ryan and I can help,” Brendon chimes in, Jon’s leg safely resting over Brendon’s lap.

Jon knows that Tom’s not fond of the idea, but maybe Tom will have Ryan take care of the animals and he’ll take Brendon into the fields, the two of them packing up the produce and bailing hay. Jon himself isn’t pleased with the idea of taking it easy. He dreads the sense of feeling useless, of watching the others work and not being able to take on any of the load himself.

“We’ll think of something,” Tom sighs.

Back at the house, Tom tries to take Jon inside and have him rest on the beat up couch, but Jon wants none of it. Jon ambles to the porch and eases himself down on to the wooden planks, his crutches resting at his sides. Tom stands in front of him, hands on his hips, but his face is soft again, worried.

“You’re feeling okay?”

“As long as I don’t move my leg, I’ll be fine. I’m more concerned with our season.”

Tom waves Jon off. “It’s a good thing you got us these farmhands. We’ll pick up the slack. You just rest.”

“I’m not good at resting, you know that,” Jon sighs. He already feels bad for not being able to work during their busiest season, when they bring in the most cash by selling off produce and hay to the townsfolk or the restaurants in the city. It’s going to be difficult for him to just sit there and watch Tom and the others work while contributing nothing of his own.

“Do it for me?” Tom asks. He crouches down and smiles before he leans in, brushing away the hair from Jon’s forehead before he presses a warm dry kiss to Jon’s skin. Distantly, Jon is aware of Brendon and Ryan in the field, but he’s too taken back by Tom’s sudden boldness to mind all that much. They all know by now that Jon and Tom have gotten up to far more devious things than kisses on foreheads, but still, a faint blush breaks out over Jon’s cheeks.

“Yeah, okay. I feel like this is all a part of your plan to keep me in the kitchen like a good wife.”

“Why would I do that when Brendon’s the better cook?” Tom laughs. He darts out of the way when Jon attempts to prod him with the rubber tipped end of his crutch. Eventually, Tom has to return to work, and Jon watches him call Ryan over with a gruff shout. Tom points to the hay and Ryan nods and goes back to where he and Jon had been working earlier that day.

Spencer shows up ten minutes later, and instead of seeking out Brendon, his gaze turns to Jon. Spencer smiles and comes to sits next to Jon on the porch.

“What the hell happened to you?” Spencer asks, his eyes taking in Jon’s wrapped ankle and pushed up pant leg.

“Fell off the cart this morning bailing hay with Ryan and now I’m outta commission.”

“Ouch,” Spencer sympathizes. “So, I hope you don’t mind it, but Brendon told me about what happened with his father the other day.”

“Oh.” Jon doesn’t know what else to say. He assumed Spencer would find out and he trusts Spencer. The boy is stable and kind and the least likely to spit at Tom and Jon’s lifestyle choice.

“It feels different, doesn’t it? Better?” Spencer asks. He pets his hand over his dark slacks, brushing away dust.

“Feels good to be honest about yourself, that’s for sure,” Jon begins. “Takes some weight off my shoulders, you know?”

Spencer hums in response and stares at his hands that are resting on his knees.

“Not to pry,” Jon continues. “But I’d like to know what your intentions are with Brendon.” He keeps his tone light and teasing as to not make Spencer uncomfortable about owning up to his own sexuality. Spencer’s head whips up so fast Jon’s sure the younger boy has pulled a muscle. Spencer’s icy blue eyes are wide and his mouth is gaping open and closed like a fish out of water.

“I... Intentions?” Spencer falters. Jon fights back a laugh.

“Tom and I saw you two in the horse barn the other day. It was quite the eye-opener.”

Spencer is blushing, honest to god blushing and Jon smiles softly at that. “I…it just happened. We were talking about what happened and I pulled him in for a hug and then he was just looking at me with those eyes and I couldn’t help it. I don’t think he could, either; we just sort of went for it.”

“Just don’t hurt him, Spence. He’s so young and he’s had so much hurt in his life already.”

“You sound like an overprotective father,” Spencer laughs and then flinches, and his smile falls away, a blank mask taking on his face. Jon is about to ask what’s wrong when Spencer looks up at him and keeps talking. “I like him, a lot. More than I think I’ve even liked another person, man or woman. But –”

There’s a silence that drags on thick and heavy between them. “But?” Jon prompts. Spencer exhales, deep and sorrowful.

“But I’m the only man in my family. I’m supposed to carry on my family name. I’m supposed to marry a woman.” Spencer stops and waits, bites his lip like he’s waiting for Jon to finish his thoughts or possibly yell at him, throttle him maybe. Jon does nothing but sit there, hands folded in his lap and his fingers flexing. He doesn’t know what to say. “And I want… I’ve always wanted children. That’s not… I can’t do that with Brendon.”

“Sometimes,” Jon starts, he shifts on the porch, dull shocks of pain crawling up and down his leg as he repositions himself. “Sometimes we make sacrifices for people we love.”

“Love,” Spencer echoes and Jon nods. “But my family name… how can I turn my back on that? I...”

“You’d rather turn your back on Brendon?” Jon asks incredulously.

“No, no. Of course not. I don’t want to hurt him, not now, not ever, but what am I supposed to do? I can’t have a wife and a kid and Brendon.”

“You know, I want kids, too,” Jon says. He’s not looking at Spencer as he speaks, his eyes watching Spencer’s hands as they rest on the knees of his dark slacks. “I always have. I want children, but…” Jon trails off and he turns to the field, his eyes finding Tom, who’s just finishing up the watering. Jon is aware that he’s smiling, wide and happy. “But I want Tom more.”

When Jon turns back to Spencer, he sees the younger boy is also looking to Tom, who’s in his dress shirt and dark suspenders, who’s moving over to help Ryan, who, up to this point, had merely been gathering the hay into piles and then packing them down and bundling them up.

“I suppose it’s something people have to learn on their own. They gotta reach the point where they realize who they love. Especially in our situations, loving that person means letting go of that fear and just being there, just committing. You’ll learn that someday, I think,” Jon muses.

Spencer pulls a face and looks off into the distance at the horse barn where Brendon is reining Dylan and Clover back in. “Maybe,” Spencer breathes out. He doesn’t sound convinced, he sounds lost. Jon doesn’t doubt that he is. He doesn’t know if Brendon is the first man Spencer’s ever had this particular type of encounter with, but he’d like to think so, and that means that these experiences and feelings that have become a second nature, a natural skin to Jon, is all new to Spencer. He’s got to remember that Brendon and Spencer are prone to crashing around blindly, like babies attempting to walk for the first time.

Not long after their talk, Spencer wanders away to go find Brendon, and Jon’s left alone to watch the farm bustle around him. Tom and Ryan are actually working together. Ryan lifts the bundles to Tom, who’s taken up Jon’s previous spot perched atop of the cart. Just looking at the cart makes Jon’s leg ache uncomfortably. Ryan and Tom aren’t talking while they work, but at least Tom isn’t yelling at the other boy.

Tom's not the type to hold on to his anger for very long, and it really wasn't Ryan's fault to begin with. Jon closes his eyes and he thinks back to right before he fell off the cart, what Ryan had said about being with a man before. It makes his chest buzz in a strange way, the thought of Ryan kissing or lying with a man. Jon's not surprised to find that it excites him, pleases him that Ryan isn't as devoted to women as Jon had once thought.

The excitement is short lived, considering that despite the declaration, there isn't anything Jon can do with that information. It's something that will simply plague him, drive him crazy that it wasn't, isn't, and never will be him kissing Ryan.

That night, during dinner, Ryan tries to help Jon inside the house, but Tom just glares and puts all his walls up, prickles, bristles when Ryan tries to help Jon get centered in his seat or attempts to take Jon's plate from him when they're cleaning.

"I've got it, Ryan, thanks," Tom says none too kindly, and Ryan sighs and backs down but doesn't look as hurt as he had this morning. Jon thinks that he's come to see Tom as an angry dog that will bark until its throat is raw, but never bite.

Tom is the one who takes Jon to the bedroom and settles him on the bed, sets his crutches against the wall. He's the one who lies Jon on his back and undresses him like suddenly Jon isn't able to do even the most basic of tasks for himself.

"I'm not paralyzed, Tom," Jon tries to tell him. Jon’s hands wrap loose around Tom’s wrists, catching him as he pulls back from the bed. Tom just levels him with a questioning gaze before Jon lets him go and Tom is folding gracefully to his knees, his hands carefully unlacing Jon's shoes and then tugging off his socks, brushing the dust off the bandage that Sean had wrapped along Jon's ankle and under his heel.

"I know that," Tom finally answers. He leans up a bit, hovering over Jon’s lower half, and he undoes the button and zipper of Jon's pants, urging Jon to lie back so he can get them off his hips. "Maybe I don't mind it," Tom tells him. "You are my lover, after all."

"Well, Tom Conrad, as I live and breathe. Is this you going soft on me?" Jon teases from his position laid out on the bed. Tom slaps at his thigh playfully.

"Shut it."

Tom gets Jon’s pants off and then moves up the bed to start popping open the buttons on his shirt. Tom opens the buttons and leans over Jon, kissing him lightly on the mouth before moving and doing the same to his sun warmed cheek, his forehead and the tip of his nose.

"Is this to make up for being so jealous today?" Jon asks carefully. Tom stills above him, hands caught cool inside Jon's shirt to push the fabric away from his shoulders.

"I wasn't being jealous." Tom frowns. He lifts Jon up a bit and gets the cotton off of his shoulders. Jon pulls his arms out by himself and sits himself up so he and Tom are now face to face.

"What do you call jumping all over Ryan today?" Jon moves his hands so he's cupping Tom's elbows. Tom sighs and ducks his head, blonde hair spilling into his eyes.

"It's his fault you fell," Tom tries.

"But Tom, it's not; I –”

"Jon...I want to believe that it’s his fault you fell. I don't want to consider the alternative," Tom says as he looks up to meet Jon's gaze. Jon brings a hand up automatically to brush the hair out of Tom's eyes.

"What's the alternative?"

Tom bites at his lip until it goes white before he answers. "That you're so fucking taken with Ryan that you can't even concentrate on the simplest job, jobs you done so many damn times. Let me believe that Ryan made the mistake, Jon. Let me."

Jon is floored. Tom sounds so desperate to believe his personal truth, like he’s honestly afraid of his own theory. Jon knew there was an underlying jealousy there with Tom in regards to Ryan, but he thought he had proven to Tom that he was the one Jon loved. Loving someone and being attracted to someone are two completely different things. Doesn't Tom know that?

"Tom..." Jon knows he should be talking, filling Tom's head with reassurances, but honest to god, he doesn't know what to say. Will telling the truth help any when the truth is that Ryan has experimented with his sexuality? That Jon was shocked at the idea? Jon could see Tom being just as upset at that kernel of truth as he is with the figment of truth that he believes in. "That's not the case. I'll tell you that right now."

"'M sorry, Jon," Tom whispers before he pulls away and climbs off the bed, proceeds to undress himself quick and uncaring, his gaze down and unwilling to meet Jon's.

"No, I'm sorry," Jon begins. He's careful pushing himself backwards on the bed with his good foot until his back is resting against the headboard. "I shouldn't make you feel like that would ever be a possibility."

Tom snorts. "How could it not be? I notice it, too; the kid is a damn natural beauty." Tom finally sheds himself of his clothes and climbs into bed beside Jon. "Only natural that you'd notice it, too."

"I fell because I asked him a question and was surprised by the answer," Jon finally admits. He takes Tom's hand in both of his and strokes a finger down the line of Tom's knuckles, rough from when Tom had punched the wall. Tom tips his head back against the wall and let’s his head roll lazily on to his shoulder, facing Jon.

"What was the question?"

"The answer is easier to explain," Jon says. Tom shrugs.

"The answer, then."

"He told me he's experimented with men before. In a sexual manner, you know?"

Tom laughs, honest to god laughs. Jon is confused and rightly so.

"Well, damn, Jonathan. I coulda told you that."

"What? How?"

"It's pretty obvious in him," Tom shrugs again. "I just figured."

"He almost married a woman in New York," Jon fills Tom in. "So I didn't figure."

"You don't figure anyone could be," Tom prods. "Fuck, you took the biggest risk of your life on kissing me."

"And I still expected you to knock my lights out," Jon laughs. Tom smiles and brings their joined hands up, kissing the backs of Jon's hands.

"Even if I was straight, I doubt I'd have done that. That face of yours is just too damn pretty to injure." Tom brings his free hand up to pet at Jon's cheek. Jon laughs in response, something small and cut off.

"So you won't be so hard on him now?" Jon asks a few moments later.

"On Ross? Nah, I need to work with him. Figure I won't get much out of him if he's scared of me."

"Good," Jon murmurs. He kisses Tom's cheek before he settles down on to the mattress, pulling Tom down with him. "Let’s go to sleep now, yeah?" he says and Tom sidles close to him, curling up next to Jon.

***

By the next day Jon feels a little more natural with his crutches; he can work them better to the point where it doesn't feel strange, where it feels like more of an extension of him. He manages to get himself around without Tom or Ryan's help and he gets himself to the breakfast table in one piece. Tom even lets him dress himself that morning. The day is typical; the same as every other day except after breakfast is over Jon doesn’t have anything to do.

“Write your mother a letter,” Tom suggests. “You know how she worries.”

Jon rolls his eyes, but he really should. It’s been a while and he’s willing to bet his mother is running low on funds but high enough on pride that she won’t write asking him for money. “Yeah, I guess I will.”

Tom leaves the plates in the sink and stops by Jon to drop a kiss on the top of his head. “Good boy.” Brendon and Ryan are in the house when he does this and Jon flushes. It seems Tom’s lost his nerves about showing Jon affection in front of other people or maybe he’s just staking his claim in Jon, he doesn’t know but he’s not quite beyond blushing like a little girl when it happens.

Brendon is taking over the task of watering the field today. Jon can see that he’s gained a bit of muscle since he’s started here and he worries less about the boy’s abilities. Brendon is doing the watering so Tom and Ryan can finally finish loading the cart with hay and then take it into town for selling.

Tom goes outside with Brendon to help him set up the watering device and that leaves Jon and Ryan alone in the kitchen. All Jon can think about is what Ryan told him yesterday; the ease and simplicity with which he gave up his information. Jon is intrigued, the idea burning inside of him and he must know more, the desire is too great to ignore.

“I should really,” Ryan points to the door.

“Ryan wait!” Jon reaches for him only to abort the move halfway through. Ryan stills he’s hovering in the air but he drops back into his seat at Jon’s request.

“Yes, Jon?”

“I want to talk about yesterday.”

Ryan looks down at the table. “Oh.”

“I wanted to talk to you about what you told me.”

“Which part?” Jon can tell that Ryan is feigning ignorance. They both know exactly which part of their conversation Jon was referring to.

“The part where you admitted to being with a man before.”

Ryan sits stiffly at the table throwing Jon a quizzical look. “What do you want to know?”

“Who was he?” Jon finds himself blurting out. Ryan arches an eyebrow, his face remaining cool and blank.

“You really want to know about him?” Ryan sounds surprised at the notion; dumbfounded that Jon would ever want to hear about one of his past relationships, in all honesty the most interesting one to Jon. He reigns himself in and shrugs in an attempt at being aloof, to at least look less interested than he really is. There’s the ghost of a sly smile curling up the corners of Ryan’s pretty face. It’s small and hidden but it’s there.

“I met him in New York,” Ryan begins. “He was a drummer at one of the night clubs I frequented from time to time. I remember when I first met him I was so intrigued by his looks, his face was one of the most unique I’ve ever seen in my travels. He was beautiful in this really unconventional way. I asked him to model for me a few times.”

Jon thinks back to the worn sketchbook that Ryan carries with him. He hadn’t seen any drawings of a man, only ever the pretty woman from New York.

“What was his name?” Jon presses. His imagination is running wild; building a scene for him. The smoky back rooms of a club closed off from everyone else. Ryan sitting, his energy completely focused on this mystery man, this drummer with the offbeat beauty. Jon’s mind even supplies what they would be doing. He thinks of how Ryan would do much of what Jon had done at the stream the day he photographed Ryan, he’d position the man in any way he wanted, hands on a firm male body, drinking in his looks to transfer to paper.

There’s this goofy distant look on Ryan’s face and he’s smiling softly, Jon isn’t even sure Ryan’s aware he’s doing it. “His name is Nicholas.”

“How’d it happen?” Jon is more than aware that he sounds jealous mostly because, well, he is jealous, though he has no right to be. Ryan isn’t his lover after all and realistically he never will be anything more than just a friend, a farmhand. That’s okay, that’s the way it should be.

Ryan clasps his hands together, his oddly long digits tangling. “Does it matter?” his voice is lacking any discernable emotion so at the very least Jon can guess that he’s not annoyed by the topic at hand just yet. Jon doesn’t answer but he can feel his mouth tugging down into a deep frown.

“I was drawing him,” Ryan gives in. “He was laid out on the couch and I went to adjust his arm and then he caught me by the wrist and he smiled at me. I remember he didn’t look afraid at all, he wasn’t afraid. He pulled me down to him and then he kissed me. I wasn’t…it wasn’t much different from kissing a woman or at least it didn’t feel different.” Ryan shrugs. “It was nice.”

There’s a searing ball of jealousy that’s rolling around in the pit of Jon’s stomach snowballing until it feels a little like it will overtake him. Ryan is quiet and he’s staring, giving Jon a look that screams ’you wanted to know, don’t you blame this on me because you wanted to know.

Jon swallows and attempts to gain the courage to say what’s tucked itself into the forefront of his mind.

“You laid with him?” Jon finally brings himself to ask. Ryan’s dark eyes go huge in surprise at how upfront Jon is being and Jon can see a pink flush creeping up from under the collar of Ryan’s dress shirt.

“What business of that is yours?” Ryan says with an almost disbelieving laugh.

“Curiosity.”

“Did you lay with Tom last night?” Ryan twists the question, turns it back on Jon.

Jon snorts. “Don’t let him hear you say that.”

Ryan grins and he’s flushing, red as a tomato, “I took him in the backroom that night. It was the only time it happened I…we just kissed all the other times.”

“Were you in love with him?”

Ryan laughs again, the flush that had spread across his face is dying down. “It wasn’t like that. We weren’t even anything. We definitely weren’t in love. I said it was an experiment.”

Besides their conversation about Ryan’s father and the reasons that possessed him to leave Virginia, this is the truest discussion that Jon and Ryan have ever had. Jon is seeing a different side to Ryan, a new and even more interesting side. There are some people that are never as simple as they seem. Ryan is one of those complex people that you could spend years with, but still manage to find something new, some shiny piece that you never knew existed for all that time.

Jon wants to keep talking. He wants to hear more about Ryan’s life and his loves and all the secrets that make him tick. He wants to know more but then the front door is opening and Tom is ducking inside, expectant eyes falling on Ryan.

“I need you outside now,” Tom stresses. Ryan nods at Tom and then smiles uncertainly at Jon before he’s following Tom out of the house and into the field.

Jon sits at the table just basking in his thoughts for a good five minutes before he gets up to go and fetch his paper and pen to begin his letter to his mother. Jon tells his mother of the new farmhands, he says that the farm is well and that he and Tom are well. He mentions in passing that he sprained his ankle but doesn’t focus on it, she doesn’t need to worry. He tells her that he loves her and that maybe this winter he and Tom can come and visit for the holidays. Before he closes up the letter Jon hobbles into their bedroom and opens the top drawer of the dresser, the drawer where Tom keeps his money.

He lifts out a few paper bills and tucks them down in between the folds of the letter. Jon seals up the envelope and writes out the familiar address of the house and town he grew up in. He’s in no state to be traveling into town so he’ll give the letter to Tom and have him deliver it when he takes their produce into town.

Eventually Jon makes his way outside to inhabit his usual spot on the porch. He can see Spencer and Brendon in the horse barn and he can see that Tom and Ryan have hit their stride and are working together seamlessly, the two of them are even talking and Jon thinks he can see Tom smiling and everything.

***

This day is better than the one before. Tom is in a cheerier mood and he comes in for dinner telling Jon about how he expects them to have one of their largest hauls this season. Tom being in a good mood seems to correspondingly lighten the moods of everyone else in the house. The five of them; Spencer had decided to stay for dinner, laugh easier during their meal. They even break out the good bottle of whiskey and Jon can feel any previous tension that might have been clinging to the air melt away like ice on a hot day.

Tom is also being kinder to Ryan. When Ryan helps heft Jon out of his seat Tom barely notices, barely bats an eye at the two of them.

Tonight is the first time Brendon’s ever drank in his life and the boy is a definite lightweight. His cheeks flush fast and his dark eyes glaze and he starts pawing at Spencer his second cup in. Spencer’s own face is heated and flushed but he’s not drunk and he promptly cuts Brendon off from having any more of the strong stuff. Not much later he takes Brendon upstairs to put him to bed, his arms hooked around Brendon's soft waist so Brendon doesn’t fall on the climb up the stairs. Ryan and Jon watch them go and once they're out of site Ryan turns to Jon. "I'm definitely taking the couch tonight," he laughs, Jon joining in. Jon wonders if they’ll risk it, if Brendon and Spencer will sleep together in the house.

Ryan's gaze is frosted but just slightly and he's holding on better than the night he and Jon had shared a bottle to themselves. Tom and Jon aren't lightweights and Jon doesn't feel anything but loose and warm, content. Tom comes in from outside carrying the large metal tub that they wash their laundry in.

"You doing some laundry, Tom?" Jon asks. Tom sets the tub down on the floor and shakes his head.

"Nope."

"Then what?" Jon asks, confused.

Tom ignores the question in favor of kneeling in front of the fireplace. He takes the half burned logs from the last time any of them light the fireplace and piles together the slightly burnt thick logs of wood. Jon watches from the table alongside Ryan. Within minutes Tom brings the fire to life and then he's darting silently back outside before he returns with two buckets of water clutched tight in his hands. Tom hangs the buckets up over the heated fireplace.

"Tom, what are you doing?" Jon tries again. Tom looks at him and flashes him a quick smile.

"I want to do something for you."

Jon smiles tentatively. “What is this something you want to do?”

“There isn’t much two people can do with a tub and water, Jon,” Tom points out. He’s got a cloth wrapped around his hand and he lifts one of the buckets from over the fire. Tom had since moved the metal tub into the room adjacent to the living room and he carries the bucket of water into that room. Jon can’t see him from his position at the table but he hears Tom dump the water into the tub, the slap of it ringing through the room.

“You’re drawing me a bath?” Jon asks mystified. Tom re-enters the room and lifts the second bucket from the fireplace. “Something like that,” Tom calls from the other room.

Jon watches Tom repeat the process of warming and dumping buckets of water until finally the metal tub is nearly full and cooled down enough for Tom’s liking. Tom comes back into the room and he offers Jon his hand with a smile. Jon stands and allows himself to be lead into the adjacent room; the tub is pushed almost right in front of the bottom of the staircase.

Tom takes Jon’s crutches from him and sets them against the wall and Jon settles himself with his hands on Tom’s shoulders. Jon leans in and kisses Tom briefly, Tom tastes of smoke and earth and he smiles against Jon’s mouth as his hands slip to Jon’s shirt. Tom slowly begins to undress Jon just as he had the night before.

“You really want me to get naked here? Where Brendon and Spencer could come down and see? And Ryan’s in the other room?” Jon asks as Tom removes his shirt.

Tom leans in to mouth lightly at Jon’s neck though Jon knows that this isn’t really about sex, more about comfort, about Tom wanting to know that he’s still needed in Jon’s eyes. Tom drops his hands to Jon’s belt and begins to undo it.

“Are you going to join me?” Jon whispers.

“Nah, I just want to take care of you, worry about you right now.”

Jon’s pants are being tugged down along with his underwear and Jon is more than away of the one measly wall is the only thing that separates his now naked body from Ryan’s eyes. The whole time Tom was undressing him Jon had been standing gingerly on his hurt foot but now his leg is beginning to ache and so Tom hastens the undressing and he carefully helps lower Jon down into the tub.

The water is warm but it’s nice and Jon sinks down, the water stopping chest level. There is not enough room for Jon to stretch out completely but his legs aren’t cramped either, if anything the heated water makes the ache in his leg dissipate.

Tom picks up a cloth from next to the tub and he moves to kneel down next to the side. Tom dips the cloth into the water and he scrubs at Jon’s shoulder and neck. Jon sighs and Tom laughs.

“Feels nice?” He asks.

“Feels amazing.” Tom’s hand is creeping up the back of Jon’s neck, cleaning skin that’s caked with dirt and sweat. “You’re really going to sit here and wash me up?”

“I missed you okay? I still haven’t had enough of you yet, just you and me and your skin under my hands. There hasn’t been enough.” Tom dips the cloth into the bathwater, soaking it even further before he brings it up and wrings it out above Jon’s head, wetting his hair.

Jon blinks through the water and moves the damp hair out of his eyes. Tom cleans Jon methodically, scrubbing down near every inch of Jon’s skin, between his fingers, his back and thighs his feet. Jon just accepts it he lets himself enjoy the attention Tom is doting upon him.

“You and Ryan are getting along better?” Jon asks sometime later. Tom shrugs and pushes pruny fingers through Jon’s damp hair, calluses catching on the dark tangled strands.

“The kid isn’t so bad once you get to know him,” Tom murmurs. Tom sounds a little like he’s embarrassed to admit that he actually likes Ryan now. “He was tellin’ me about his life in Virginia. I told him about growing up in Kansas and about my old man. He told me about his too.”

“Were you surprised that your stories were so similar?” Jon asks. He’s always thought it, that Tom and Ryan’s back-stories paralleled in the most important of ways, where it mattered and where their decisions changed the course of their whole lives.

Tom sets the cloth aside. “A bit.”

“I think that’s why I liked him so much. There was just something about him that felt familiar, a little like having a piece of you while you were gone.” Jon keeps his voice a low rumble. Ryan is only in the other room and he probably hasn’t gone to sleep yet.

“We’re just a bunch of kids who never got on with our fathers,” Tom laughs just a shade too dark. Jon sits himself up in the tub. The water’s gone lukewarm and the skin on his hands and feet are beginning to wrinkle. Jon leans close to Tom.

“I think I’m ready to get out now.”

Tom smiles and nods and then he’s standing and wrapping firm hands around Jon’s slippery skin and tugging him up. Jon’s able to step out of the tub without much trouble and he leans on Tom as his lover wraps a threadbare white cotton towel around Jon’s waist. Tom fits Jon with his crutches before he stoops to collect Jon’s clothes. Jon leads the way out of the room, the towel hiding the most important part of his body from Ryan as he and Tom pass through the kitchen.

Ryan is folded in the same chair in the kitchen where he and Tom had left him. Ryan is drawing and he keeps his eyes focused on the creamy paper as the two men pass him by, throwing ‘Good night’s’ over their shoulders at him.

Once inside the room Jon dresses into his sleeping clothes and falls into bed. He’s even more sated post bath than he had been when he was drinking. His eyes are heavy and refuse to stay open much longer. Jon watches Tom dress; taking in a broad sturdy sun tanned back, messy blonde hair, and a gloriously rounded ass. He watches until his eyes fall closed and the last thing Jon sees before he falls asleep is Tom’s face hovering above his.

***

There isn’t much work to be done the next day. Somehow even without Jon’s assistance, Tom, Ryan, Brendon, and Spencer had managed to box up all the produce that’s to be sold as well as loading all the bundled hay into the cart.

Jon’s on the porch and he’s surveying the fields. The golden stalks of hay are gone replaced with short ugly stubs of tough yellow, the roots of the stalks that will grow in next season. Their vegetation is gone leaving dirt and flourishing plants that will be dead by the middle of fall.

Tom and Brendon left with the cart and the horses for town. Jon had wanted to go but besides his crutches there was no spare room left on the trip. Jon had given Tom the letter meant for his mother to mail so at least Jon can be glad about that.

Ryan comes from around the house with a bucket of water clasped in both of his hands. He can’t run the watering device on his own so he’s been taking bucket after bucket out to the field to water the plants. Jon had offered to do the watering but Ryan had shot him down.

So for now Jon is perched on the porch with his legs hanging off the edge next to the stairs. He watches Ryan finish up the watering and he watches as Ryan returns from the field, stretching and sweating. Ryan sets the bucket down near the side of the house before he wipes at his brow with his handkerchief and looks at Jon.

“I’m going to make some lemonade. Want some?” Ryan asks him. Jon nods.

“It’d be nice, thanks.”

Ryan heads inside the house and Jon occupies his time by letting one of Roosevelt’s kittens, a tiny gray ball of fuzz, bat at his good foot. Soon Ryan returns with two glasses of lemonade and he takes a seat on the porch next to Jon.

“Ryan,” Jon starts after they’ve been sitting in silence for too long. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable but Jon would rather fill the space with words than let the silence drag on.

“Hmm?” Ryan hums back lazily.

“I was wondering if you could teach me a little about painting?”

“You want to learn?” Ryan sets his glass of lemonade aside, the sweat from the glass pooling around the bottom of the cup and wetting the porch in a dark circle.

“It’s been on my mind. It’s-I don’t think I’ll be any good, but I’m curious.”

Jon looks back at Ryan to see that Ryan is absolutely beaming at him. “Sure, yeah, I don’t think I’ve ever tried to teach anyone before, but who knows, maybe I’m good at it.” Ryan pushes up off the porch and goes inside, Jon assumes to get his art supplies. When Ryan returns it’s with his worn sketchbook and his cloth bag of pencils and brushes, the fresh canvas Spencer had gifted him with earlier that day.

Ryan sets everything down except for the canvas which he hands to Jon. The canvas is of medium size and it fits in Jon’s lap easily. Ryan is kneeling to Jon’s left, digging through his bag for his brushes and his circle of paint.

“It’s kind of hard to explain,” Ryan begins, “For me it’s just something I feel.” While Ryan talks he hands over his supplies to Jon, the pallet of paint and the thick handled brush. “Just close your eyes and paint whatever it is you see,” Ryan whispers his mouth right next to Jon’s ear.

Jon dips the dark bristles of the brush into the paint, a smoky blue color that Ryan had created. Jon looks down at the blank expanse of canvas that’s settled on his lap and he sets brush to canvas, painting a thin cobalt blue line across the top of the pristine rectangle. Jon is about to put brush to canvas a second time when he feels a hand circling around his wrist, stilling his movements.

Jon looks up at Ryan through his lashes and heavy bangs.

“Not like that,” Ryan instructs softly, his voice barely an airy breath. “You won’t get clean lines like that.”

Jon remains still and he can feel Ryan’s fingers flexing around his wrist. “I don’t know any other way.”

The farm around them is silent, quiet and slow and Jon doesn’t want to move; he’s afraid that any movement, any words will shatter that peace that’s suddenly built up around them like a protective shell.

“Here,” Ryan says, “Let me show you.” And then Jon feels Ryan moving, shuffling until suddenly Ryan is nestled right up behind him. Ryan’s seemingly never-ending legs are on either side of Jon’s hips, caging Jon in. Ryan’s hands snake down Jon’s arms and his right hand comes up to curl over Jon’s, the brush still caught in Jon’s fingers. “Do it like this,” Ryan says right into Jon’s ear, his breath tickling hot and itchy against the back of Jon’s neck.

Their hands move together, the brush glides in a thick dark line. “There see? Isn’t that better?” Ryan chuckles softly, his body curled forward and molded against Jon’s back. Jon looks back over his shoulder at Ryan, their eyes meet and Ryan’s are so dark, so deep and intoxicating.

“It’s a lot better,” Jon stammers his tongue feels thick in his mouth and his body is all too aware of how firm and heated Ryan’s chest feels against Jon’s back. Ryan smiles and Jon feels lost in that too, drowning. They’re so close; closer than the day on the stairs.

The world is still spinning quietly; a comfortable creation and it feels a little like it was made just for them. Jon feels lightheaded, giddy even, his heart forging a rapid beat in his chest. The two of them are just staring and Jon won’t look away from Ryan and he doesn’t move, not an inch as he notices Ryan shifting, Ryan leaning in. Jon doesn’t object when Ryan kisses him.

The kiss is firm, small and dry. Ryan’s breath is puffing hot against Jon’s cheek and his mouth is soft, not wind-chapped and stubble covered like Jon is used to. Jon can’t think; he can’t do anything but let Ryan kiss him softly again. Their kisses are closed mouth just lips meeting lips, innocent in a way where neither of them are really innocent at all.

Jon feels Ryan’s slender digits tangle in the ends of Jon’s hair at the nape of his neck and Ryan is tilting his head and then Jon takes in the first hint of the damp heat of Ryan’s tongue flicking against his closed mouth. Jon doesn’t fight; he doesn’t say no, he lets Ryan in.

Ryan is commanding in a way Jon didn’t expect from him. This isn’t the way Jon had thought Ryan would kiss, not that he ever let himself get too far when it came to imagining Ryan this way. But now Jon is kissing Ryan. He’s opened the door on all the thoughts and wants he’s kept locked away since Tom’s return, but it’s good, it’s good and Ryan’s mouth is yielding and plush and he tastes nothing at all like Tom does.

Tom. Jon’s mind jerks awake, seemingly fast forwarding to the present, here and now. Jon pulls back, his and Ryan’s mouths break away with a slick noise. Jon’s getting away like Ryan’s mouth has burned him, like each kiss is seared permanently against his skin.

“Ryan,” Jon pants. He’s overheated and his cock is half hard in his slacks already, just from a few kisses. “Tom-I-we-“Jon tries pathetically to garner an excuse, a reason to say no. His mind isn’t helping, his mind is blank to anything but yesyesyes. Jon swallows and ignores the fact that he can still taste Ryan on his tongue.

Ryan’s still holding him close and he closes his eyes. “I know,” he whispers. Ryan leans forward and Jon thinks he’s going to try and kiss him again but instead Ryan just rests his forehead against Jon’s. “I know,” he repeats but Ryan’s fingers are still in his hair and digging into Jon’s shoulder, Jon can feel the rapid thump of Ryan’s heart against his back. They’re still sharing air between the two of them. Jon’s own hands are wrapped around Ryan’s frail body, one fisted in the back of his cotton button up and the other spread along Ryan’s side.

There’s a painful moment of realization; where the two of them just breathe together, faces touches. There’s that moment where it’s just so obvious how badly, how much they both want. Neither of them can have what they want. Now that Jon’s gotten a taste of what his body’s been craving for weeks now; it only increases that want tenfold.

“I love him,” Jon breathes. Ryan’s grip loosens and Jon wants to say no, he wants to say please don’t ever let me go but he can’t; Ryan can’t hold him when Tom already does. And Tom, god Tom doesn’t deserve this. Jon does love Tom; he love him more than most anything in the world, but then there’s Ryan and no matter how much Jon wants to pretend that he doesn’t, he cares about Ryan maybe even loves him as well.

“I know,” Ryan repeats again like they’re the only words he knows anymore. “You two... you two are beautiful together,” Ryan confesses. Jon’s eyes flutter open but Ryan’s hands are moving and he’s cupping Jon’s face in both of his hands, rough thumbs smoothing over Jon’s cheekbones.

“I can’t hurt him,” Jon whispers but even as he talks his body aches to press forward, to get Ryan down under him and to kiss him again.

Ryan keeps stroking his fingers across Jon’s cheeks. “I don’t want you to. I like Tom. I like you.”

“I... don’t leave because of this. Don’t leave us I don’t want you to go.” It’s a fear Jon sometimes has, the fear that Ryan will find something better in a city far away from this Podunk farm town. Ryan doesn’t say anything and his hands fall away from Jon’s face; Jon already misses the touch before it’s even gone.

“I’m not sure how much longer I can resist this feeling,” Ryan mumbles. He’s got his head tipped down to the porch. Ryan’s body is a taut line, tight and seized up from fear or holding back from touching Jon. “It’s so hard to not be able to touch like I want to, to hold and kiss and be there like I really want to be.”

“Trust me, I know how hard it is but we... we want you here, Ryan. I want you here.”

Ryan smiles shallowly and he leans in and presses a damp kiss to Jon’s cheek before he’s standing up.

“I’m going to go start some things for dinner,” Ryan tells Jon. “Do you need something?”

Jon focuses his gaze on Ryan’s feet, on the dirt covered dress shoes and he shakes his head.

“I’m fine.”

Ryan doesn’t say anything and then he’s slipping inside. And now that Ryan is gone and Jon is alone, that’s when the fire in his belly dies down to nothing but a sputtering spark. Replacing the spark is the icy cold feeling of guilt flowing through his veins.

Jon looks down at the canvas still settled in his lap. The cobalt paint has smeared and dripped along half the canvas. Jon has neither the skill nor the patience to repair such an error so he sets the whole thing aside. He’s surrounded by both Tom and Ryan. Tom being the house, the farm, the life Jon lives. Ryan is the scattered art supplies, the ruined canvas, and the dark paint clinging to Jon’s fingertips.

He stares out at the dirt road waiting and watching for the first sign of the horses and the cart. Jon already knows he’ll tell Tom about the kiss. He has to, there is no other option. Tom won’t be able to shrug off the lies in the same way he’ll spot the tension that’s sure to build if Jon doesn’t speak up about it. At the same time, at the same time this could be the last straw for Tom, a man who likes his life just as it was prior to pretty farmhands who are obviously attracted to his lover.

Jon lies back on the porch, closes his eyes and listens to the sounds of Ryan moving around inside the house.

***

When Tom and Brendon eventually get home that night Tom is smiling with his wallet full of paper bills. Brendon stretches and grins. “Ryan made dinner?” he asks and Jon, who once dusk had fallen, had finally migrated inside to sit at the kitchen table in a pregnant silence with Ryan, looks up and nods.

“I made stew. It’s just about the only thing I know how to make,” Ryan supplies from the stove as he brings the pan with him to the table to spoon the stew he had made into the four bowls set out. “I used to make it for my father all the time.”

Tom drops down in the seat next to Jon. He pets a hand down Jon’s back and Jon is ashamed of the way his body wants to flee the touch due to the guilt and the need to retain the memory of Ryan’s hands clinging to him desperately. “Are you alright?” Tom asks with concern. “You’re being awfully quiet.”

“I’m alright… my leg it’s making its irritation known,” Jon jokes. In reality his leg is fine it’s the rest of him that feels like its being held together with gauze and tape. Tom lets the subject drop but his hand rests firm against the small of Jon’s back, fingers stroking against the shirt and it’s nice, but it’s not what Jon wants, not exactly or at least not right now.

Since the kiss he’s been feeling wrung out, opened and exposed like the casing of his body has been cracked and everyone can see the gears moving on the inside. Ryan sits as far away from Jon as he can manage, but no one says anything. Ryan obviously has had practice ignoring an awkward situation, fighting through his emotions and creating facades.

“It’s going to be real nice to have our work load back to normal,” Brendon laughs during dinner. They all nod in response even though Jon still isn’t doing much to help out.

“We’re not exactly done yet. We’ve still gotta do a run tomorrow, then we’ll be alright,” Tom points out. He’s happy and he’s doing that thing where he sometimes talks with his hands, the spoon clutched in his hand gesticulating wildly. Jon can barely eat, he feels sick to his stomach over the kiss and he knows it’ll only get worse if he keeps silent on the subject. He’s terrified of the consequences but he must tell Tom what happened.

***

Jon decides to tell Tom that night once they’ve all retired to their respective beds. Tom mentions that his back is aching; he says it in passing not like he expects Jon to suddenly scoot up behind him in sickeningly perfect mirror of how Ryan had curved his body against Jon’s earlier that day and start rubbing at his shoulders, his neck. Tom groans softly in appreciation and for the first time Jon is afraid that as a result of his confession he’ll lose Tom. Jon leans in and noses at the back of Tom’s scalp, blonde locks brushing against his face and he breathes in the scent, committing it to his memory.

“That feels good,” Tom mumbles in appreciation. “Are you trying to butter me up or something?” Tom is joking but Jon’s stomach bottoms out and hurtles straight to his feet.

“I’m trying to show you that I appreciate your work ‘round here.”

“Yeah? Well don’t forget that that leg of yours is gonna heal up real soon and then you’ll be working too.” Jon is quiet, his hands stilling against Tom’s shoulders. There’s a stretched silence before Tom clears his throat. “Jon? You know I was just fooling right?”

“I know, I just…there’s something I need to talk to you about.”

Tom must sense the dread in Jon’s voice, the fear that Jon can’t conceal. He’s moving and Jon is pushing back to give him room. Tom moves until he’s sitting up facing Jon. He reaches across the bed and takes Jon’s hand in his own.

“What is it?”

Jon swallows and stares at his and Tom’s laced fingers. He’s so afraid but he still forces himself to meet Tom’s deep blue eyes. “Something happened while you were in town today,” Jon begins. He feels Tom’s fingers tighten around his own, flexing, testing while he wants for Jon to continue. “I was talking to Ryan and I- I don’t know how it happened but we kissed, Tom. I’m sorry, I-“

Tom pulls his hand away and his face crumples from concern to a blank mask of anger. Tom is staring at him, right at him and his eyes are bleeding with anger that it’s killing Jon to hold his gaze.

“You kissed him?”

“I’m sorry! I told him we couldn’t! I said it was because I’m with you, I’m sorry. “Jon tries to take Tom’s hand like he had before but Tom jerks away. Tom’s whole body is tight with anger, quaking silently.

“Was it just one kiss? Just one innocent little kiss?” Tom’s voice is harsh and it’s obvious he’s trying to reign in the tone. Jon looks down at his lonely hands and he wishes for Tom’s hand to be curled over his once again. “Jon,” Tom snaps harshly.

Jon flinches at the way Tom sounds, just how angry he is. “It wasn’t just one. It wasn’t and god Tom I wish I had stopped it before it got to this.”

“I knew it,” Tom growls. “I knew there was something. I can only imagine what happened while I was gone, working my ass off for us. Did you lay with him? Did you do it right here in our bed?” Tom is still managing to keep quiet but he’s snarling at Jon and his eyes are burning.

“Oh, Tom no-no I’d never! I didn’t touch him, not once! You can ask Brendon. This was… this was the first time and it was an accident.” Jon is keeping himself relatively calm, he’s more concerned with Tom knowing the truth, every aspect of it; that it did happen but it never had before, he needs Tom’s trust in him.

“How can I believe it, Jon? I come back and you’ve got him living here. You’re attracted to him… how can I believe you didn’t do anything?”

Jon gets up on his knees and he pushes into Tom’s space, his hands on Tom’s shoulders. Tom fights to be freed of Jon’s touch, but Jon doesn’t relent, he holds on because letting go of Tom now means risking him walking away and Jon can’t, that can’t happen.

“I love you please, you know that. You know that. I didn’t want to hurt you Tom, you can believe me.” Jon is pleading, he’s trying to catch Tom’s gaze but Tom won’t look at him, his head tipped to the side. Jon’s hand slides up to Tom’s neck, fingers spread out along his skin, touching at his chin.

Tom sighs deep and injured and he all but shoves Jon away from him. Jon is still injured, still hasn’t quite reached his normal capacity and he can’t stop Tom before the man is off the bed and pulling their bedroom door open. Jon’s quick to play catch up though, he hobbles off the bed and grabs up his crutches before following Tom out into the living room.

“You’re living in my house and you think that means you get to kiss my lover?” Tom is shouting. Ryan had been lying on the couch, sleeping or close to it, but he jumps up at the sound of Tom’s voice, shoots up out of the bed and Jon thinks it’s a built in reflex left over from his childhood. Ryan is staring with huge worried eyes. “Answer me!” Tom bellows, he snatches up Ryan by the collar of his nightshirt and hauls him close.

Ryan looks over Tom’s shoulder at Jon whose standing just inside the living room.

“Don’t look at him when I’m fucking asking you a question! You kissed him.”

Ryan forces his gaze to leave Jon and he looks at Tom, his face akin to that of a wild animal that’s been plucked from the woods, from nature and is staring down the barrel of a gun.

“I kissed him. I did. He didn’t… he didn’t expect it. It’s my fault, it is.” Ryan’s voice is filled with sorrow and Jon thinks to earlier that day, how close and warm and peaceful it had all felt. This moment, this reality couldn’t be further from the previous.

Tom is breathing harsh and Ryan is loose in his grip waiting for whatever is going to happen.

“I trusted you. That’s the worst part. I trusted you with him and my life when I clearly shouldn’t have! This is my life, Ryan and I won’t have anyone take it away from me.”

Ryan’s eyes fall closed. “I’m sorry.”

Tom ignores Ryan’s soft words. “Are you in love with him?” Tom questions, Ryan’s eyes snap open and they’re big, scared once again. When Ryan doesn’t answer, Tom shakes him a bit, his hand shaking where it’s balled in Ryan’s sleep shirt. “Answer me! It’s really the least you can do, don’t you think?”

Ryan’s eyes slip closed once again and Jon’s heart is beating wild in his chest. He hasn’t spoken up to this point, but he should, he needs to stop this. This will make Ryan leave, it’ll make him go away and that’s what Jon’s afraid of. It’s when he realizes that Ryan leaving would break him just as much as Tom leaving.

“I’m sorry,” Ryan repeats. “I-I do… I’m sorry but I do.”

Jon doesn’t have time to be shocked by Ryan’s quiet reply because then Tom is growling and curling his free hand into a fist that’s aiming for Ryan’s face. Ryan doesn’t even try to break away, he hangs there limp prepared to accept Tom’s beating.

“Tom!” Jon shouts and despite the anger and the fighting, despite it all Tom still stops. “Tom, don’t hurt him. I deserve the blame as much as he does. So don’t-don’t hurt him, please.”

The room is silent and none of them move. Jon can’t breathe from Ryan’s words and Tom’s anger and his own stupidity. Finally, finally Tom releases Ryan. He knocks his shoulder hard into Ryan’s, sending Ryan back down on to the couch as Tom passes him by.

“Tom,” Jon tries but Tom doesn’t stop, not this time. He goes to the door and tugs it open. “Tom?” Jon starts after his lover, but Tom is ducking out into the pitch black of the night and by the time Jon shuffles over to the door and peers outside, calling Tom’s name into the darkness, the other man is nowhere to be seen.

Jon stands in the open doorway as the minutes tick by, stretching out and feeling like miniature eternities. Jon calls for Tom again and again, calls for him until his throat is burning and his body is chilled by the cool night air. Jon can feel Ryan’s eyes on him, but Ryan hasn’t moved since Tom left the house, he hasn’t said a word.

Finally Jon closes the door and he makes his way back to the room, his head bowed. The room is quiet, the only sound being that of the rubber tipped crutches scraping against the wooden floor. Ryan watches Jon go to his room, but he doesn’t say anything, Jon’s glad really, he doesn’t know how to respond to anything Ryan might say or what he’s already said. The words are already echoing around Jon’s skull.

Jon cracks the window in his and Tom’s bedroom just in case he somehow hears Tom moving around outside. Jon lies in bed awake for what feels like an endless amount of time and still Tom never returns, never even comes back inside. When Jon finally does fall asleep he’s cold and hurting.

***

Tom still hasn’t returned to their room come morning. Jon pads out into the kitchen and there’s just one plate sitting on the table. Before Jon eats he goes to the front window and peers outside at the field. He can see Tom’s form in the field, the watering device settled on his shoulders. Jon takes comfort in the fact that Tom is still here, on their land and doing the work as if life is normal and last night never happened. But as Jon settles at the table to eat his meal a thought flashes through him like an electric shock; Tom is there but where is Ryan?

Jon darts up, panicked suddenly that Tom convinced Ryan to leave while he was sleeping. Ryan’s things are still cluttered around the couch and Jon sighs in relief. Ryan has stayed as well. He wonders how they managed that; how they ate breakfast or even were able to work together or see each other.

Jon eats alone in the quiet house. He’s almost afraid to open the door and go outside to face the new day. The pain from last night is unresolved and sticking around like fragmented glass pieces rooting up from the ground in a shimmering trail from Jon to Tom and from both of them to Ryan.

When he’s finished with breakfast Jon leaves his plate on the counter before he wobbles his way outside. Jon scans the outside and Ryan is still nowhere to be found. Tom must hear the sound of the screen door slamming against the house because he turns around and peers back at Jon with a hand up to shield his eyes from the sun. Jon doesn’t know what he should do so like an idiot he raises his hand in a wave. Tom shakes his head and turns away from Jon, his back to the house.

That won’t do. Jon won’t accept that. If Tom won’t come to him then he’ll go to Tom. Jon carefully gets himself down the front steps on his crutches, it’s harder walking with them in the grass and near impossible when he reaches the field, the soil is too soft and Jon’s crutches sink in the loose dirt.

Jon drops his crutches aside and they clatter sharp against the ground behind him. It’s enough to make Tom turn back around and he sees Jon standing there without the aid of his crutches, both legs supporting his weight.

“What are you doing, Jon?” Tom barks. “Get your crutches.”

“No,” Jon answers firmly. He takes a step forward and he’s really not used to walking without the crutches anymore, his ankle feeling stiff and foreign as he hobbles towards Tom. A few steps in Jon is doing fine and then somewhere, a soft spot or a dip, he loses his footing and goes tumbling forwards, colliding with the cool damp earth.

Jon lies there in the dirt, his shirt and pants soaking through with the water Tom’s already spilt on the ground. He’s frustrated, upset that the whole world seems to be working against him, making what is already hard even more difficult.

Tom hears him fall and Tom is turning fast as lighting as Jon pushes himself up to at least a sitting position. Jon’s shirt is damp and stained with mud as are Jon’s arms and neck. He’s feels like a fool sitting here in the mud trying desperately to try and prove something to his lover.

“Oh, Jon,” Tom says as he sets the watering device aside and comes to Jon. Tom bends and tries to help Jon up, but Jon slaps away his hands. The one thing he wanted was Tom’s attention but he sure as hell didn’t want it this way. “Let me help you,” Tom snipes and he curls his hands around Jon’s dirtied forearms, tugs him up to his knees and then he helps get Jon standing.

Tom leads Jon out of the field, his bad leg curled up so he’s not standing on it. Before Jon can protest, Tom is getting an arm under his knees and then he’s hefting Jon up into his arms. Tom carries Jon back to the porch, both of Jon’s legs hooked over Tom’s arm.

Jon knows Tom’s still angry but apparently not enough to not help Jon when he needs him. Tom sets Jon on his token spot on the porch and walks back to get Jon’s crutches. And then Tom is coming in from the field, the wooden crutches in his hands. He keeps his head down as he comes to stand in front of the porch, in front of Jon who despite just taking a spill in the field is standing up without the aid of his crutches once again.

“You feeling okay?” Tom mumbles and Jon nods.

“I’m fine. Where did you sleep last night?” Jon ventures. Tom snorts.

“Upstairs with Brendon, but don’t you worry, Jon, I didn’t kiss him.”

The words sting, they do, but Jon deserves them and it’s not as if he didn’t expect Tom to be over what happened. “I deserve that,” Jon says simply. He doesn’t want to fight or argue any longer, he’s tired, so tired of it. He wants things to be like they were two days ago where Tom and Ryan were bonding and Jon could watch them smile at each other and admire how lovely it was.

“Ryan’s in town with Brendon delivering the second load to William. I figured you’d want to know,” Tom grunts. He’s jealous and Jon doesn’t want that. The two of them have been together for seven years now, seven years, Tom should know more than anything else by now that Jon loves him, that he always will.

“I love you, Tom. I mean it every time I say it, I hope you know that.”

Tom scratches at the back of his head. “But you love him too, yeah? Just like he loves you?”

“I didn’t know he loved me,” Jon admits. The words are hard to speak, sticking like glue in Jon’s throat, making his chest seize up.

“But you do now.”

“And that changes nothing because I’m yours and you’re mine.”

“Fuck, Jon. Maybe it’s my fault? We’ve been together so long and I’m away all the time. Maybe I’m boring and Ryan is new and exciting? What if I’m not enough?”

It almost sounds like Tom is talking more to himself than he is to Jon, but the words break his heart. How could Tom think that? How could he possibly believe that to be the truth? Jon goes down the stairs sans his crutches and he cringes a bit at the lingering pain, but he gets to Tom and he wraps his arms around Tom’s body and Tom, Tom lets him.

Jon sets his face against Tom’s shoulder. “Thomas Alfred Conrad, stop it. Do you honestly think I’d stay with you all this time if I was bored?” Jon feels Tom shrug and Jon squeezes him tighter. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for ever making you feel this way,” Jon whispers against Tom’s neck.

Tom’s fingers press lightly under Jon’s chin, tilting his face up so their eyes meet. “I believe that you’re sorry and I know, I know that you love me,” Tom says. His fingers are still splayed along Jon’s jaw when he leans in and kisses Jon firm with a soft touch, an edge of forgiveness. “And I love you too.”

Jon lets his body sag and melt into Tom’s. He lets Tom’s hands cradle him.

“Do you want Ryan to leave?” Jon asks. His voice is muffled against Tom’s chest. Tom rakes a hand through Jon’s hair.

“Do you?”

“That’s not... that’s not a fair question,” Jon points out.

“I want to know.”

“I don’t want him to, no,” Jon admits.

“I’m not gonna tell him to leave,” Tom assures Jon. “Especially knowing he has no place to leave to.”

“Thank you,” Jon says. He wants to think Tom is doing it for more than just him. He wants Tom to want Ryan to be in their lives. He wants them, he wants them both, but he doesn’t know how to say it; he never really let himself think about it, explore the possibility. But now with Tom holding him from the front it’s all too easy for Jon to picture thin arms sliding around him from behind, a face nestled in his back and kisses over shoulders.

***

Jon and Tom may have patched up their relationship for the most part but things with Ryan are still rocky. Jon can’t bring himself to talk to Ryan out of fear of what he’ll say, what he’ll do or even scarier what Ryan will tell him. Tom isn’t talking to Ryan either and that night Ryan skips out on dinner and climbs the stairs to the attic without a word to anyone.

Brendon hasn’t missed what’s happened. Jon already figured that he heard everything from the night before or that Tom told him when he went to sleep upstairs, or at the very least Brendon was wondering why Tom was sleeping upstairs and not downstairs with Jon. But Brendon never asks what’s wrong or why it’s happening. He mostly sits there at the table eating dinner and looking miserable, reminding Jon of a child who’s watching his parents argue.

Ryan never comes back down for dinner and eventually Brendon retires to bed as well. Jon washes himself up with a cloth and an icy bucket of water, washing away the caked on dirt sticking to his forearms. He’ll have to do his laundry tomorrow but he’s sure his best shirt is permanently ruined.

Tom hangs around and waits for Jon to be finished before they both go to bed.

“Maybe we can go into the city soon. I’ll buy you a new shirt,” Tom mentions once they’re settled in their bed. It feels nice to have Tom back where he belongs. The two of them aren’t fixed yet, not all of the way, but Jon can fill in the silences until they are.

“I’d like that.” Jon smiles, Tom gets a hand on Jon’s thigh and tugs Jon close. Close enough that Jon is pressed all along Tom’s side. Tom rests the side of his face against the top of Jon’s head and it’s quiet, it’s peaceful and Jon can feel himself sinking into the mattress his eyes falling closed.

The two of them doze off but they don’t sleep for long when a loud thump echoes from upstairs, the sound bouncing around the walls of the house. Jon jerks awake and Tom is jumping up from the bed, disoriented, but aware. Tom peers over at Jon and Jon knows that the two of them are thinking the same thing. What if Brendon’s father put his plan into action? What if they’re being attacked? It’s not something that’s out of the question; Jon’s heard the tales of men like he and Tom, how they wind up hurt or their homes burnt down, maybe even sometimes they wind up dead.

“Stay here,” Tom hisses sharply when Jon makes to get up from the bed. Jon wants to argue, but Tom is serious and when he’s like this its best to just agree. Tom opens up their bedroom door and eases out into the darkened living room. Jon was told to stay and he had intended on listening but Tom’s heading out there alone and that’s unsettling to Jon, that’s damn scary.

There’s the thumping sound again and it doesn’t sound like it’s coming from the front of the house, but rather the side. Jon gets up from the bed and he hastens to the corner to grab his crutches before he follows Tom’s path out the door and into the living room. Jon comes out just in time to see Tom standing by the front door. There’s a soft golden glow coming from a kerosene lamp that to Jon’s surprise, Ryan is holding.

Ryan being downstairs isn’t what’s surprising. What’s surprising is that even from the few feet of space between them Jon can see that he’s dressed in his work clothes, his coat on over that and his cloth bag hooked over his shoulder. Ryan looks surprised, like a child who got caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

“What are you doing down here?” Tom asks. Jon doesn’t know if he’s noticed that Jon has followed him, but either way Jon remains silent. He knows what Ryan’s doing. Ryan’s leaving them.

“I was trying to be quiet,” Ryan says without really answering Tom. “I dropped my bag on the staircase. I’m sorry I woke you.” Ryan is quiet; his voice falling into that blank monotone that he favored back when Jon first met him, when he first started living at the home.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Tom asks. Tom comes off sounding slightly put out as if he’s been woken up for something nowhere near as drastic as he had once thought. Jon wonders if either one of the men knows that he’s standing out in the living room. Jon’s in the darkened half of the home, the glow from Ryan’s lamp failing to reach him.

Jon hears Ryan sigh and the light from the lamp sinks to the floor. “I know, alright? I know you don’t want me to be here in the house anymore. I know that you won’t tell me to go because Jon doesn’t want me to leave. He wants me here and I’m sorry, I’m sorry that he does. I never wanted-when I came here I really was just looking for a place to stay.”

“And what are you looking for now?” Tom asks quietly. Tom is good at lacing his own emotions with a monotone; Jon’s practically unable to read either of their feelings right now. But he knows his own. He’s scared, scared of another fight or even worse, Ryan really going without even bothering to grant Jon a goodbye.

Ryan laughs sadly. “An impossibility.”

“You were gonna leave without saying goodbye to him?” Tom asks like he’s right inside Jon’s head, like he’s speaking for Jon. Ryan shifts in place.

“Would you really want me to do that?”

“Let’s take me out of this for a minute. It’s already obvious that Jon cares about you; he does, not in the same way he cares about anyone else he’s brought here to work. He cares about you like he cares about me and it would hurt him, kill him, if you didn’t say goodbye.”

“I don’t-“Ryan messes with the curls of his bangs, the right side of his face is lost to the shadows of the room and Jon can’t see Tom’s face at all. “I don’t know if I can. I won’t be able to look at him and know it’ll be for the last time. I can’t,” Ryan chokes out.

Tom shifts and Jon’s breath catches in his chest. His heart is thumping so rapidly, so loudly that he’s sure both Tom and Ryan can hear it.

“Then don’t leave,” Tom says suddenly, firmly.

“What? Why would you tell me to-“

“You live here. This is your home now. I don’t know if you’ve realized or not, but once Jon adopts something it’s permanent.” Tom chuckles a little fondly and Jon really doesn’t know what’s going on. Ryan wanted to leave because he didn’t want them to tell him to go and here now Tom has the opportunity to tell Ryan to get out, to ensure that what had happened between Jon and Ryan never happens again and he’s not taking it.

Ryan laughs too, that melancholy laugh that doesn’t do the job of hiding his sorrow. “If I stay I want you to know that I won’t try anything with Jon, not again. Not ever. I know he’s your lover, I understand that.”

Tom makes a soft noise of acknowledgment and Jon’s heart tumbles to his feet. He knows he shouldn’t want it, but he does. He wants long hands and a plush giving mouth and he wants that quiet warmth from the day on the porch when Jon had never felt so right about an act he knew was so wrong. But if it means Ryan will stay and he can have both of them in the same house then Jon will make himself forget how it felt, he’ll ignore how much he wants another taste.

“Then you’ll stay?” Tom asks. Ryan shoulders his bag and he nods.

“I’ll stay.”

“Good.” Jon knows the conversation is wrapping up and he needs to get back into their bedroom before Tom is aware enough to notice that he’s been standing in the shadows listening the entire time. Jon moves backwards quietly, slowly enough that he’ll make it to the room before Tom but he’ll also catch the ending of their conversation.

“Are you going to tell him? Jon, I mean,” Ryan asks carefully. Jon stops and he waits to hear the answer.

“Nah, I don’t wanna worry him for nothing,” Tom says around a yawn; Jon’s cue to keep moving. He already knew Tom wouldn’t want to tell him, would want to protect him. Jon’s relieved that Ryan agreed to stay, he wants to ask if Ryan promises if he’s not just saying it to pacify Tom for the night and then sneak off once everyone falls back to sleep.

Jon shuffles into the bedroom and sets his crutches quietly back against the wall before he climbs into bed and waits for Tom. From the bedroom Jon can see the dim glow of the lamp and he catches the sound of mumbled voices and then both are fading away, dissipating. There are footsteps and Tom is edging back into the room, crawling into bed next to Jon.

Jon feigns that he’s fallen back to sleep while Tom was talking to Ryan. “What was it?”

Tom curls up next to Jon, wraps his arms around him and kisses the back of his bare shoulder. “It was nothing, Ryan was painting and he dropped something from upstairs. He said he was sorry for waking us,” Tom mumbles. “Now go to sleep.”

Jon hums in agreement and sinks back against Tom, but he’s not tired, not at all. He’s picturing Ryan upstairs, Ryan taking off his coat and taking off his shoes. Ryan had been so ready to flee and Jon imagines that too. How if Tom hadn’t stopped him he’d be walking into town in the dark, all alone with everything he owns on his back; Ryan taking the train out of town, Ryan never once looking back.

***

Things aren’t exactly back to normal that morning. They’re good; the three of them and it feels like they can put the incident behind them and move on. It’s good, but it’s nothing like what it was before; how easily Tom was offering smiles to Ryan and how Ryan could touch Jon without anyone thinking anything of it. It’s not perfect but it’s good enough for now.

Jon doesn’t bother bringing up last night; the lie Tom created or the actual truth. But he smiles at Ryan over breakfast that morning and holds Tom’s hand under the table. Tom seems distracted or distant, lost in thoughts, Jon figures he’s regretting he didn’t take his chance to let Ryan leave.

Spencer is back that morning and though Jon never directly asked if Spencer ever solved his problems with what’s expected from his family and his newfound attraction to Brendon, things seem to be fine between the two of them. Jon spots them milling around the farm together, dipping in hidden places their hands linked. He sometimes just sees them holding each other like a hug that’s edging on far too long. Now seeing Spencer holding Brendon tight only makes Jon remember; the two different sets of arms that hold on to him, how badly he wants to be surrounded on all sides.

Today his ankle feels better and Jon is forgoing his crutches and taking test steps around the farm. Tom still won’t let him water, but he does dip into the field to help Ryan weed the plants, and chop some wood into logs because they’re running out of the thick logs upstairs. Jon and Brendon teach Ryan to can the fruits and vegetables they have left over from the harvest, their own personal supply.

The new season isn’t too far off and soon a few of the plants they have will die off with the first chill and it’ll be time to start thinking of winter, of how much they need to preserve and can to last them the season. Jon works mindlessly, his body used to the routine and actions. His mind is elsewhere conjuring up memories of his kiss with Ryan and how he had been hard during it. His dick stirs at the thought and Jon flushes and forces himself to think of Tom, of who he should always be thinking of. Did the last few days teach him nothing?

By that night Jon has worked himself up into a near constant state of arousal. His thoughts have evolved beyond either Ryan or Tom and he’s to the point where his mind is entertaining anonymous lovers just to be safe and when the hands that are holding his thighs apart start looking too long or the mouth that’s kissing a line down his back suddenly becomes rough with stubble he has to stop and he has to breathe and he has to make himself stop wishing for something that’ll never happen.

Tom takes him to bed that night and Jon carefully crawls atop his lover, his hands spread along the tanned skin of Tom’s shoulders and chest. When Jon kisses Tom its Tom that stays in his mind and its Tom’s hands sliding up the expanse of his bare back, scratching lightly. Jon gasps against Tom’s mouth and his hips grind down of their own accord. But then Tom’s hand is finding Jon’s hip, grasping and he’s pulling away.

“Wait, wait,” Tom pants, his mouth already reddening.

“Wait? Why?” Jon’s still rocking small and slow in Tom’s lap, his hard cock still trapped in the confines of his slacks. Tom scoots out from under Jon’s body, rolling off the bed. Tom is matching Jon with his bare chest and the almost obvious bulge in his pants.

“There’s something I gotta do first,” Tom tells him. He’s picking up his abandoned dress shirt from the floor, the one Jon just got off of him and sliding it back on leaving it to hang open revealing the hard line of his chest between the unbuttoned sections.

“I... okay?” Jon doesn’t really get it. They finished their work and they had their dinner. What else could Tom want to do? Jon nods though and he sits in the center of the bed and watches Tom scratch a hand through his hair before he leaves their bedroom. Tom had made sure to close the door behind him so Jon can’t even see what it is he’s doing out there, a part of him wonders if it’s a secret or a surprise, but he’s talking about Tom here so the latter option seems like the most likely choice.

Tom is gone for close to ten minutes and Jon is about to go and find him when there are footsteps and the door opens once again. Jon is about to complain about how long Tom’s been gone and hadn’t he understood that Jon was eager for tonight? But then Jon notices that Ryan’s following Tom into the room, his eyes glued to the floor and his jaw tight.

“Tom what-“ Jon tries to start. Jon scoots to the edge of the bed facing them, watching Tom and then Ryan, his gaze flickering between the two of them. “What’s going on?”

Tom lifts his head and looks right at Jon. He’s determined, but there’s a hint of fear worming its way across Tom’s face, Jon is suddenly scared. “The night we fought I went to the woods. I went there and I just sat in the clearing and I did a lot of thinking,” Tom is saying. “I thought about what happened and what to do when I came home and I know Jon, I know that you feel something for Ryan and I don’t think it’ll just go away on its own. I also know that Ryan feels something for you too.”

Ryan is watching Tom talk like he had no idea that this is what the conversation was going to be about. Jon wonders what Tom told Ryan to get him to come back to their room.

“We’ve discussed this and I told you that I-“Jon tries to argue an obviously true point. He doesn’t want to fight anymore, not when he thought things were fine between the three of them, fine enough for the lot of them to move on.

“He loves you,” Tom says, he waves a hand in Ryan’s direction. “He told us so and you love me but I’m sure you’re in love with Ryan too.” Tom’s voice is stony, but controlled; he’s controlling the situation and bringing to light all of the things Jon’s been keeping tucked away for so long.

“Tom.” Jon doesn’t know what to say. If he’s being honest then he does love Ryan, he loves Ryan and he loves Tom and isn’t there just some way that the world can be okay with that?

“It’s okay Jon. I’ve accepted this and I just, I want things to be better and I want you to be happy.” Tom takes a deep breath that comes out shaky on the exhale. “I want you to have what you want.” Tom turns and he looks at Ryan who meets his gaze with firm confusion and fear.

Jon is watching the both of them standing before him. “I don’t understand,” He confesses.

Tom moves a bit until he’s closer to Ryan and his hand curls over Ryan’s shoulder, pushing lightly, urging Ryan forward in the direction of the bed. Ryan moves at Tom’s will and to Jon’s surprise Ryan sits down on the bed next to him, their knees bumping. Jon isn’t looking at Ryan though or the obvious flush staining his cheeks, no, Jon is locked on Tom.

“What are you doing, Tom?” Jon questions.

“You two can... you can do what you want to do. It’s okay, I’ll be okay as long as you still stay with me afterwards,” Tom whispers, he sounds desperate and broken and that’s not, Jon doesn’t want that at all. Jon feels Ryan’s hand slip to his knee, it’s just resting there but Ryan’s palm is hot and a surge of sparks flare across Jon’s skin. Tom smiles sadly and nods like it’s right, like it’s what he wants. “I’m giving you each other,” Tom says. “I’m stepping back.” He takes a step backwards towards the door.

Jon finally understands. Tom is offering up Ryan. He’s letting Jon have what he knows Jon wants what he’s been wanting and he’ll just bow out while it happens. It’s so unlike Tom. Jon can see that it hurts, behind the words and the calm bravado he can see how the thought of backing out of this room and letting Jon and Ryan have each other is hurting him.

Tom is trying to leave and Jon opens his mouth to stop him, but before he can Ryan is reaching out and his long slender fingers wrap around Tom’s wrist, keeping him from moving away. Tom’s eyes are wide and clear and Ryan is staring him down more determined than Jon’s ever seen him.

“No,” Ryan starts. “No, I want... both of you. I want both of you to be here,” Ryan tells him without a trace of fear. Ryan’s hand is still burning against Jon’s knee, but Jon covers the hand on his knee with his own and looks to Tom, looks for a sign of acceptance. Tom is watching Ryan, surveying him as if he’s trying desperately to see inside Ryan’s head, to see if it’s really true.

“Stay,” Ryan says again. “Stay here.” He tugs Tom closer, brings Tom to them and Jon’s not so surprised anymore when Tom listens and Tom drops down on Jon’s left. Jon can barely breathe. This, this moment has been the source of every lustful thought that he forced out of his head these last few days and now, can he really have it now?

“Jon?” Tom leans in and breathes against Jon’s ear. Jon shivers and tilts his head so his nose brushes Tom’s cheek.

“Stay,” Jon agrees. “Stay with us.”

Tom nods and leans in and then he’s kissing Jon slow and heated, just like they were before Ryan was in the room, but now that Ryan’s here, watching them it’s better, hotter somehow. Tom and Jon break their kiss and then Jon turns to the right and Ryan is there with heated eyes, he licks his lips and Jon doesn’t hesitate to lean in the rest of way and kiss him too.

It’s like their kiss on the porch except more. Ryan’s hands clutch at Jon’s thighs as their mouths slide together slick and hot, Jon leading the kiss this time. Jon brings his hand up and cups the back of Ryan’s skull, pulls his fingers through soft locks as their tongues glide. Jon moans quietly into Ryan’s mouth and Ryan presses closer, kisses harder. Tom’s hand skims up Jon’s bare arms, touching at his neck.

Jon is already feeling overwhelmed, feeling surrounded and drowning in heated skin and firm hands, wet mouths. Jon and Ryan break apart and without missing a beat Tom is leaning into Jon’s space, Ryan meeting him the rest of the way and they’re kissing too. Jon loves them separately, thinks them beautiful when they’re alone, but this; together with Tom’s hand fisted in Ryan’s hair, alternating between petting and fisting the soft curls. The way Ryan opens up for Tom just as easily as he had for Jon. The two of them are stunning this way.

Jon is hard again, even harder than he had been before. Tom and Ryan part and Ryan’s mouth is red, wet, Jon wants to see him like that, he wants more than that. Tom stands and Ryan does too. Ryan pushes his hands under Tom’s shirt that’s already just barely clinging to Tom’s shoulders, he pushes the fabric away from Tom’s skin. The shirt falls to the floor, discarded. Jon is content to watch them for the moment, to see how Tom lets himself curl a hand around Ryan’s sharp bony hip, the same move he’s done to Jon time and time again.

“What do you want us to do?” Tom asks Jon; his hand is still resting on Ryan’s hip, petting the skin just under the hem of his dress shirt. Jon’s tongue feels heavy in his mouth at the thought that he gets to orchestrate this in whatever way he’d like to see it, just the way his mind’s been imagining it.

“Well, Ryan should be wearing less I think,” Jon says from his position on the bed. Tom smirks and steps closer to Ryan, pets down Ryan’s neck before he begins to pop the buttons on Ryan’s dress shirt.

“I couldn’t agree more,” Tom says darkly and Ryan shivers on the spot. Tom gets Ryan out of his shirt and takes a moment to drink in Ryan’s small chest, his lean expanses of pale skin. Tom traces his fingers across the small of Ryan’s taut stomach, just above his waistband. They’ve barely done anything at all and already Jon feels more turned on than he ever has before.

Jon undoes the button and fly of his pants, slides a hand inside, cupping his own hardness through the thin fabric of his underwear. Jon groans and then all eyes are on him. “What else?” Tom prompts. “What else do you want?”

“I want,” A shudder wracks through Jon’s body. “I want to fuck Ryan.”

With the hand on Ryan’s hip Tom turns Ryan around so that his back is facing Tom’s front and Tom’s hands slide to the front of Ryan’s pants, Tom’s deft fingers working the button open and the zipper down. “What do you think, Ryan?”

Ryan rests his head back against Tom’s shoulder, cups Tom’s cheek. “Fuck. Please, yes,” Ryan groans. Jon’s never heard the other boy sound this way, so open and eager, and fuck, Jon wants so damn bad. Tom smiles slyly and slowly pulls Ryan’s pants down, Ryan shimmying out of them the rest of the way. Ryan takes down his own underwear, his cock already heavy and hard, tenting against the fabric.

Ryan’s cock is only the third dick Jon’s ever seen in his life along with Tom’s and his own. Ryan is also the biggest Jon’s ever seen; he’s long, Tom’s thicker but Ryan is long. Tom seems to notice Ryan’s body as well and his eyes heat as his hands brush over Ryan’s thighs, tracking pale perfect skin.

Jon shifts on the bed, motions for Ryan to join him which Ryan does without hesitation. Tom shucks off his own pants before he’s coming around the other side of the bed, lying on Jon’s other side. It’s what Jon wanted, warm bodies caging him in, two sets of hands skimming down his body. Jon feels the brush of Tom’s cock against the small of his back and fuck, he’s glad Tom’s enjoying this as much as Jon and Ryan clearly are.

“Your turn,” Ryan whispers in Jon’s ear as he gets a hand on Jon’s hip and rolls him on to his back. Jon raises his hips obediently and Tom and Ryan undress him as well. Ryan rests a hand on Jon’s stomach and kisses him again, quickly so Tom can dip in and steal his own kiss from Jon.

It surprises Jon how apt they are for this, how easily they adjust from a duo to a trio, it makes Jon feel as though maybe he’s not the only one whose been considering, wanting this to happen. Jon wraps his hands around Ryan’s thin arms and he rolls them so Ryan is underneath him now. Tom clambers from the bed and he finds the oil, hands it over to Jon with a chaste kiss to his lips.

Tom settles down near Ryan’s face, kisses him chastely as well. “Have you ever been fucked?” Tom asks him as he brushes his fingers through Ryan’s hair. Jon thinks about Nicholas in New York. Ryan flushes and shakes his head. “No,” he breathes. Tom nuzzles his cheek, presses a kiss there. “Jon will be careful with you.”

Jon swears under his breath. He gets his hands on Ryan’s soft thighs pushing Ryan’s legs apart. Jon strokes blunt fingers against Ryan’s heavy cock, the first touch and Ryan gasps his hips jumping under Jon’s hands. Jon’s hand is dry but Ryan doesn’t seem to mind as he wraps his fingers around Ryan’s cock and strokes him a few times.

The tip of Ryan’s dick is already leaking, pearling and Jon uses his thumb to rub over the slit, spreading it around. Ryan hisses desperately. Jon takes his hand away and spreads some slick oil over his fingers. He gives himself a moment to really take in what the three of them are doing. Jon memorizes the expanse of Ryan’s body. This is the way he’s always wanted to see Ryan and now, it’s even better than anything Jon had ever dreamt up.

Tom leans over Ryan, his pink tongue coming out to tease against the head of Ryan’s cock, lapping up Ryan’s precome. Ryan cries out and Jon falters at the way Tom looks when he closes his mouth around the head of Ryan’s cock. Ryan’s fingers bite at the sheets and his head falls back, neck a taut line.

Finally though Jon poises a slicked finger at Ryan’s entrance; he rubs over the hole getting Ryan ready to start taking his fingers. Ryan’s hips roll upwards with the way Jon’s touching him, the way Tom is sucking him down.

“I’m going to start now,” Jon says as a warning and Ryan nods sharply, encouraging. Jon lifts Ryan’s left leg and sets it up on his shoulder; he bends forward slightly and presses his finger against Ryan, pushing inside. Ryan is a tight encasing heat and Jon groans just from that. Ryan is biting his lip and Tom is bobbing steadily on Ryan’s cock, his hand threaded in Tom’s blonde locks.

Ryan is tight but he doesn’t complain as Jon adds a second finger, stretching him open. Tom pulls off Ryan’s dick but he strokes him slow, squeezing at the base. Jon presses deep, searching for the sweet spot that Ryan’s never had the pleasure of knowing before. Ryan breathes sharply, panting and writhing just a little. It’s beautiful, Jon almost wants Tom to do this so he can just watch, can just memorize Ryan in this new way.

Jon works quickly, quicker than he should but, he’s still being careful and he presses deep, the pads of his fingers rubbing against the spot inside Ryan finally. Ryan arches and cries out louder than he had any time previously. Tom stares down at him with a look of something both fond and mesmerized. It’s been so long, seven years with just each other that it’s new, shocking almost to see another man in the same way. It almost feels like a first for all of them, in many ways it is.

“Jon. I think- I think I can, please I just-“ Ryan is babbling into the pillow and Jon keeps going, just a little more, a little longer and then they can both have what they want. Tom releases Ryan, picks up the oil and drizzles some on to his palm. He knee-walks over to Jon, kisses him sweetly as his hand falls between them and wraps around Jon’s cock preparing him.

Jon kisses Tom hard and fierce and he’s pushing all of his ‘thank you’s’ into the kiss, all the silent gratitude for him having the courage to start what neither Jon nor Ryan could not. Tom pulls back and returns to Ryan’s side, leans down to kiss Ryan and for a second Jon feels like he can see it, see Tom giving a thanks of his own, a thanks for staying or for asking him to stay.

Ryan brings the leg that had been perched on Jon’s shoulder down and Jon settles between Ryan’s spread thighs. Ryan’s cock is wet and trapped between them as Jon lines himself up. Jon is hovering above Ryan just like he wanted. Ryan looks up at him and smiles, the same smile Jon has seen a hundred times before in situations drastically less normal than this. Ryan asks Jon to continue.

The first push inside is the hardest and Ryan can’t seem to relax himself. Jon waits and Tom is there, carding his fingers in Ryan’s hair, petting down his narrow sides and letting his fingers dance over Ryan’s nipples. Ryan does finally relax under Tom’s touch and Jon manages to work his way inside.

Ryan is tight and it reminds Jon of the first time Tom let him fuck him, how Jon had come too soon, but Tom didn’t say anything, how Tom had been sore for days afterwards and had to tell anyone who asked that it was due to too much horse riding.

Ryan wraps his spindly legs around Jon’s waist and his arms around Jon’s back and he holds on as Jon starts to thrust. They keep a steady rhythm, Jon goes slowly because he has to, but he doesn’t mind because each time he bottoms out Ryan makes these gorgeous noises, beautiful sounds of pure pleasure pulled out of him. Tom is there, kissing and stroking, and sometimes just watching with his hand curled around his own cock, stroking in time to Jon fucking Ryan.

Jon fucks him slow and nips at Ryan’s jaw, his neck, because he can, because he’s finally allowed to. If he had enough time he’d trace every inch of skin again and again until he knew Ryan’s body just as much as he knows Tom’s. Ryan’s fingers are biting into the skin of Jon’s back, leaving crescent shapes and long scratches behind.

The three of them are quiet for the most part; save for Ryan’s moans and the sharp hit of Jon’s hips against Ryan’s ass. As Ryan opens, as he adjusts Jon can go faster and he does. He goes faster and he tilts his hips, hitting that spot inside Ryan again and again.

Jon’s never felt more on edge or closer to coming than he does right now. It’s all too much; Ryan tight around him, clenching his ass around Jon’s cock and Tom, Tom’s heated eyes and his touches. Jon’s already close, but when he feels Tom shuffle around behind him and he hears a wet pop seconds before he feels a finger pressing at his entrance, rubbing damp and rough, it’s too much.

“Shit, Ryan, shit, I’m-“ Jon hadn’t exactly discussed whether or not Ryan would want him to come inside so to play it safe Jon had intended to pull out, but then Tom had surprised him and his body was stretched to the max, nerves jangled and his hips pressing forward, burying himself in Ryan.

Jon feels his cock jerk and he’s coming. He swears and pulls back, pulls out and he comes over Ryan’s ass and thigh and even a little inside of him. Ryan though doesn’t mind, doesn’t say anything, but moan and fist his own cock, stroking in frenzy. Tom pulls away from Jon and he’s there, covering Ryan’s hand with his own and squeezing.

“Don’t come. Not yet. I want you to fuck me first,” Tom whispers darkly to Ryan. Jon sees Ryan whimper, but he squeezes harder and breathes until he backs down from the edge.

Jon can barely move after he’s come, can barely think because he can still see his come wet and shiny against Ryan’s fair skin. Jon lies on his back on the left side of the bed and he pets at Ryan as Ryan gets up, his dick throbbing and erect between his thighs.

“You don’t have to be gentle with him. He can handle it, hell, he likes it a bit more even,” Jon supplies lazily from his side of the bed. Tom strokes at his own dick and bites his lip. He picks up the oil and wets his fingers, moves up on his knees on the bed with his ass facing Ryan. Tom reaches under himself, reaches back and he’s pushing two slicked into himself with no preamble. Ryan is watching, his eyes intense and dark with lust, with the need to get off.

Tom works himself fast and maybe he’s just as desperate as Ryan, and he is only so far from being able to hold off on his orgasm.

“What are you thinking?” Jon asks from his back, his fingers tapping against Ryan’s thigh. Ryan smiles down at him and then turns his attention back to Tom.

“How beautiful he is. How you both are. How much I… love this.” Ryan flushes at his own word. Jon pushes himself up and catches Ryan in a kiss. Jon turns to look at Tom as well, he moves and lets his hands trail up the back of Tom’s thighs, over Tom’s ass holding his cheeks apart, making the slide easier.

Jon plants a kiss just above the swell of Tom’s ass. “Are you ready, Tommy?” Jon asks against Tom’s skin and Tom pushes his fingers in as deep as he can before he’s nodding and removing them.

“I’m ready, Ryan, Jon, I’m ready.”

Tom sounds desperate and Jon shivers just from hearing how wrecked he sounds when he says Ryan’s name. He wants to hear more, he wants to hear Tom coming apart under Ryan. Jon gathers the oil for Ryan and as Tom did to him, Jon slicks up Ryan’s cock, a few quick strokes because Ryan can’t handle much and Jon’s hands are warm and damp and it could quickly become too much.

Ryan has fucked a man before and he lines up with Tom’s entrance, pushing inside. Tom isn’t as tight as Ryan so it’s easier, but Ryan is bigger than what Tom’s used to and he has to breathe through the first few thrusts.

At first Jon settles back and he watches what he’s wanted to see, what he’s imagined. Ryan is gorgeous when he’s fucking Tom, his hips are sharp and his hands are long and wrapped around Tom’s side, nimble digits digging in. Ryan’s hips snap harsh against Tom’s ass and Tom digs into the sheets, bears down and presses back, taking whatever Ryan is willing to give him.

“Tom, oh, Tom,” Ryan pants; he curls his body over Tom’s and kisses Tom’s shoulder. As Jon watches he thinks of the camera on the dresser and how he’d love to capture the two men this way, Tom’s arms straight and strong buried in the bed sheets and the way Ryan is inside all of the way, his ass flexing as he fucks Tom.

Jon scoots forward and he’s in front of Tom. He kisses Tom before he looks up at Ryan.

“Bring him up, Ryan,” Jon tells him and Ryan gets it, Ryan wraps his arms around Tom’s middle and he’s pulling Tom up so that Tom’s back is pressed all along Ryan’s front, his hands anchoring around Tom’s hips so he can fuck up into Tom even closer. Jon sinks down to his elbows in front of Tom and he takes Tom in his mouth.

Tom’s cock is leaking and Tom swears as Jon’s mouth wraps around the head. Tom’s fingers pet through Jon’s hair once, twice, before they fist in Jon’s hair, holding him there as Jon takes Tom deeper.

The three of them make this steady rhythm Ryan fucking Tom and Tom bucking into Jon’s mouth. It’s amazing this way, the three of them touching, sharing, and kissing, sweating and falling apart doing it all together two bodies to support you instead of just one.

Jon wants this to last forever beyond just this night. He loves Tom and he loves Ryan and now it feels like he can’t choose, he can’t, not after having them both. He needs them this way, the both of them. Jon hopes that Tom and Ryan feel it too, the thread that’s connecting, weaving them together.

“Jon. Jon, I’m close,” Tom moans and he lets go of Jon’s head to give him the opportunity to pull off, but Jon doesn’t, he stays on Tom’s cock and he sucks even harder. Tom comes in Jon’s mouth, salty and hot. Jon pulls off, swallowing and then Tom is tugging him up and Ryan is leaning over Tom’s shoulder to get at Jon’s mouth, licking inside fiercely. Ryan and Jon have Tom trapped between them as Ryan laps up the taste of Tom from Jon’s mouth.

Tom is pliant and Ryan is close and it only takes a few more thrusts for Ryan to tumble over the edge, his mouth biting down into Tom’s shoulder, his hips jerking against Tom’s ass as Ryan fills him.

Ryan slips out from Tom and the three of them collapse to the bed, sweaty and sticky with come. Jon’s in the middle of the bed with Ryan on his left and Tom on his right. Their legs are tangled together and their hands lace and twine. They share kisses and Jon wants to ask about what happens come morning but he’s warm and he’s tired, and he’s asleep before he can say anything.

***

Jon wakes up that next morning under a pile of arms and legs, loose and happy. Ryan is sleeping peacefully facing Jon and Tom’s head is pillowed on Jon’s naked back. He’s more than sure he could wake up this way for the rest of his life with Tom on one side and Ryan on the other. He wants it, but he knows that it’s easier to say it than it is to put it into action.

Jon’s never even heard of people being in a relationship of three save for the few tales he’s heard of foreign countries and princes with many wives. Jon doesn’t think that’s the same thing. It’d be unusual, sure, but his life already is. Tom could be his lover and Ryan could be his lover and they could all just be without worry of the public condemning them. He knows it’s a fantasy, but it’s what he wants.

Tom wakes up before Ryan and he kisses Jon’s shoulder. Ryan wakes up moments after. The three of them exchange smiles and Jon rolls on to his back, props himself up against the headboard with Tom and Ryan mirroring the action.

“What happens…what happens now?” Ryan asks the two of them. He’s obviously just as curious about it as Jon is; he’s just braver in going about it.

“Now we decide where to go from here,” Tom says calmly.

“Where do we go from here?” Jon asks helplessly.

“Last night was good wasn’t it?” Tom asks the room at large. Ryan and Jon nod along in agreement.

“More than good,” Jon murmurs.

“So we’ll keep doing that if it’s okay with the majority?” Tom questions. “And if we happen to all just sleep here or kiss each other goodnight or go on dates then it happens.”

Jon’s heart jumps in his chest, Tom is smiling small and simple, like it’s really all that easy.

“You mean that?” Jon asks and Tom nods.

“I suppose it’s all really up to Ryan though. So, Ryan, do you want us? Do you want to be with us?” Tom turns to Ryan. Jon does too and Ryan is looking down at his hands and then he’s looking up.

“Jon, do you remember when I asked you if you had someone worth staying here for?” Ryan asks as he looks up to meet both Jon and Tom’s inquiring gaze.

“Yeah, I do,” Jon says softly. He’s afraid. He’s afraid that it’s too much for Ryan being a three, being in a relationship. He’s terrified Ryan will walk away from them after all.

“I understand it now. How once you find something like that there’s just no way you can imagine being anywhere else in the world or with anyone else. I’ll be here, I’ll be here for as long as you’ll have me,” Ryan says. He’s being more open and honest than Jon’s ever heard in his life and he smiles, leans forward and kisses Ryan and then Tom then the two of them exchanging kisses of their own.

“Then you’re ours, Ryan Ross,” Jon whispers and Ryan laughs. Tom moves and pulls the two other boys down into a pile. Jon is surrounded and loved and he’s never been so happy in his entire life.

***

Ryan doesn’t leave them. The three of them are together, irrevocably so. They all sleep in the same room, the same bed. Ryan moves his things into the room, his jacket hanging behind the door and his art supplies tucked away in corners and drawers.

Life goes on and the season changes and that fall Spencer’s father gives his son a hefty amount of cash as a gift; that winter Spencer decides that he wants to move to the city, more specifically, New York City. Spencer asks Brendon to come along and though it’s a hard decision, and Brendon says he’ll miss the others and his hometown, Brendon still says yes.

The last time Brendon wrote to Jon he said how he and Spencer live in these tall apartment buildings just outside the heart of the city. Brendon had picked up instruments in New York and he’s a performer at the same night clubs Ryan once frequented; Spencer acting as his manager.Tom and Ryan and Jon have plans to visit Brendon and Spencer in the spring, to see Brendon perform in one of the clubs downtown, doing what he does the best; singing.

That fall Greta and William had begun courting and by the winter the two of them got married and according to William are trying to start a family very soon.

There are still people who sneer at Tom, Jon, and Ryan. People who still stare and judge, but Jon cares little about these people. He retains his hope that one day it’ll be better for people like them. He holds on to the dream that society will accept, forgive, and support those whose lovers happen to be of the same sex. Jon knows that one day it’ll be like this and even though he knows it probably won’t be in his lifetime that he probably won’t live to see that day of acceptance, he still smiles, because he knows it’ll come.


End file.
